


Dragging Me Down

by cleo4u2, cobaltmoony, xantissa



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Action/Adventure, Angst, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Happy Ending, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Games, Plot, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sadest of the sad fic, alternative universe, no easy fix, spy games, touch starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2018-08-16 12:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 93,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8102968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleo4u2/pseuds/cleo4u2, https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobaltmoony/pseuds/cobaltmoony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xantissa/pseuds/xantissa
Summary: After D.C., Hydra captured the Winter Soldier and brought him in for recalibration. Though Steve and Natasha performed a daring rescue, they were too late.Now Steve has to pretend to be the new Hydra handler for his brainwashed friend while they try to stay under the radar long enough to heal. There are other forces at work, that will not let them rest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always and most importantly, thanks to the Glow Cloud herself, the wonderful [NurseDarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NurseDarry/profile) \- ALL HAIL - for her awesometastic beta skills.

“There’s another squad headed your way,” Sam stated. His voice was calm, but Steve could hear the edge of worry in his voice. Steve couldn’t reassure him; he had neither the time, nor the breath. “Maybe you should get out of there.”

Throwing the shield, taking out a line of Hydra guards in the hallway, Steve chased after it. Yanking it from the wall, he slammed it into the face of the guard coming around the corner, then ducked behind it as the squad Sam had warned about opened fire. There was another group coming up behind him and Sam was right. They had needed more Avengers, more backup, but this mission wasn’t sanctioned, and Steve wouldn’t put his friends in danger like that. The only reason he wasn’t alone was because Natasha was always suspicious, and Sam knew Steve like the back of his hand.

“I can’t, Sam,” Steve said, gritting his teeth. 

“We know, Rogers,” Natasha replied. “I need thirty seconds to get to you.”

“Don’t have thirty seconds,” Steve answered. He could hear the other squad getting closer, at his back, but the squad ahead of him had set up a firing line, pinning him down behind the shield. By the time they ran out of ammo, he would have nowhere to hide. “Keep on target. Find out where he is.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Natasha snapped.

“Don’t think I have a choice.”

And he didn’t. This entire mission was so fucked, it wasn’t even funny. The Avengers should have been here, should have been allowed to take out a _Hydra_ base. The fact that they weren’t… It hadn’t sat well with Steve. He’d dug deeper, ignoring orders, and had a guess as why they were keeping him away. Bucky. They had found him after the mess at the Triskelion, and he was here, somewhere, being reprogrammed. 

What was worse, at least in Natasha’s opinion, was that the person who’d got hold of Bucky this time wasn’t just any Hydra operative. It was a Colonel from the Red Room itself, a woman old enough to know the full extent of Bucky’s programming. What Steve had seen in DC wasn’t it, Natasha had said afterwards, suggested that when Red Room sold Bucky to the American branch, they had…kept things to themselves. What Natasha knew of him, what she remembered, was more than the uncommunicative, barely-functional man on the bridge. It meant that this reprogramming session would be so much worse, so much more _thorough_ than anything Bucky had been subjected to in the last twenty years. 

Steve wouldn’t leave him behind twice, not his best guy. Even if it meant going rogue, going against the new S.H.I.E.L.D., and losing the life he had just been starting to build. It wouldn’t be a big loss; he’d avoided putting down too many roots, and strongest tie was to an organization that was _still_ corrupt enough to allow Hydra to grow unmolested not once, but _twice_.

Gritting his teeth, bracing for the pain, he threw himself into the air, twisting to make himself that much more difficult to hit, and threw the shield. Landing, he launched himself at the few goons still standing. Pain burned through his hip, his stomach, and against his shoulder, but he forced it away. Catching the shield, he punched the edge into one man’s neck, grabbed another by the front, and threw him against the nearest wall hard enough he slumped bonelessly when he hit the ground. 

The last two were already training their weapons back on him. Grabbing one, he forced his gun up, grabbed the knife at his belt and threw it at the second, ignoring the twinge of guilt he felt when it embedded in the man’s collar bone. He’d live, so long as someone got to him in time.

Tearing the gun from the last guard’s hands, Steve slammed the stock into his face and spun. Crouching, he propped the rifle against the rim of his shield and used it as cover as the second squad came around the corner firing. They weren’t nearly as coordinated as the first, didn’t form a proper firing line, and that’s all that saved Steve’s ass. He had never been as good a shot as Bucky, but he picked them off one by one, making every short burst count since he had no way to know how many rounds were still in the magazine.

The last man fell and Steve allowed himself a moment to breathe, assess his injuries. Pain continued to burn in his stomach, though his shoulder was mending since it was itching so badly. His hip throbbed,it was bad, but nothing was broken. It was his stomach he had to worry about; something vital wasn’t mending as quickly as the rest, indicating a worst-case scenario: the was bullet still inside him.

Footsteps sounded down the hall and Steve snapped his head and gun up. Natasha walked slowly through the carnage, looking down and around as if seeing death for the first time. It wasn’t that, he knew. She’d never seen him use a gun before. 

“I was in a war, you know,” he said sarcastically.

“Just making sure you didn’t leave a body part behind,” Natasha replied.

When she reached him, she offered her hand and Steve took it because _fuck_ it hurt to stand. 

“Where is he?”

Natasha was staring at his stomach, so he pressed his arm over it. Probably better for the bleeding anyways.

“Where, Nat?”

“Not far,” she answered neutrally. 

“You guys need to _move_ ,” Sam demanded. “Someone’s set off an alarm and they’re all converging on you. Five squads, at least.”

“Is that what that red flashing light and blaring siren means?” Steve asked, trying to hide how out of breath he was. 

Sam ignored him.

“I know you said you can’t, but Steve, I really think you should get out of there. You’re not good to anyone dead.”

Steve swallowed, then looked to Natasha.

“You can go. I’ll understand.”

“Don’t be stupid, Rogers,” Natasha snapped, turning on her heel and marching down the hall. Steve followed, forcing the pain back down. There was no time to indulge himself. Bucky was so close, finally, and Steve wasn’t going to lose him again. Not _ever_ again.

It surprised Steve just how close he had been when Natasha pushed open the lab doors. There were two sets, the ones they pushed easily through, flimsy aluminum without a lock, and another heavier set of steel doors. The second led to an empty space with a concrete floor, tech equipment pushed up against the walls, and the chair. Steve had seen it in his files, the black monstrosity that had taken everything that had once been Bucky and made him little more than one of Tony’s robots. 

And there, sitting in it, _was Bucky_. Nothing but lean muscle, half-naked, chest heaving and flexing in agitation that wasn’t showing on his face. He looked at them blankly, no recognition, no fear, no _anything_. Even the siren and the flashing alarms didn’t seem to be important to the man in the chair. 

“Kill them!” someone screamed and Steve managed to look away from Bucky to see they weren’t alone. An old woman, white hair cropped short and wearing a Russian uniform held a red book in her hand. The tech looked startled, realizing she was talking to him, and made the mistake of reaching for his gun. Natasha fired before Steve could blink, but her gun jammed empty. 

Realizing she was in the line of fire, the Colonel darted away and started shouting words from the book. 

Code words.

The words that erased the man he knew, and brought out the mindless machine.

_Those words._

“Get the fucking door open!” Steve shouted, despite his breathing being shallow from the pain in his gut.

Natasha was already on it, sliding some weird electronic device over the console and tapping away at her datapad. Anxious, Steve hovered by the locked doors, biting his tongue to keep from harassing her. It was past fucking time he learned to do shit like this on his own. 

“Got it!”

Steve was through the door in a heartbeat, raising the gun and firing. The words stopped, cut off before the Winter Soldier could be activated, but Steve’s relief was short-lived. 

“They’re nearly on top of you,” Sam barked.

“Natasha, bar the door,” Steve ordered. 

Swinging the rifle over his shoulder, he held out his hand to Bucky.

“It’s time to go.”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t even flick towards him. Didn’t move from whatever spot they’d chosen in the middle distance. 

It was as if he wasn’t even _there_.

“Bucky?” Steve tried, but there was still nothing. It was like looking at a doll. The only sign that Bucky was even alive was his agitated breathing. Not like before, when there was at least a glimmer of recognition. This body, the body of a man he’d loved more than anything in the world, didn’t know him. 

“We don’t have time for this,” Natasha snarled, back bracing the medical cart she’d shoved before the doors. “Use the codes and we’ll figure it out later.”

Slowly, Steve’s gaze turned to the book still clutched in the hand of the dead woman. She was right; they didn’t have time for this. But using the codes? Being no better than Hydra? Steve didn’t know if he could, if he could take any remaining autonomy away from Bucky after so many had thought it was their right. It wasn’t Steve’s, it wasn’t _anyone’s_ , but if they stayed here they would die. Steve would die, Natasha would die, and they’d just make Bucky a monster all over again. 

As if reading his mind, Natasha said quietly, “Better the devil you know, Steve.”

He picked up the notebook. 

Even as he looked at the words scribbled by hand on the yellowed pages, some distant part of him wondered if maybe it wouldn’t be better, more merciful to just put the gun to Bucky’s head and end the torment once and for all. Even though he understood the logic in that action, he knew he could never make a decision like that. He was too weak. Couldn't stand to _think_ it, much less actually follow through. 

The codes were in Russian, but someone had scribbled beneath the Cyrillic in pencil. Not just the translations, but the transliterations. Well, lucky him. He couldn’t speak Russian, but he had heard enough to vaguely know how it was supposed to sound. Imitation without understanding the words, but he didn’t need to know what they meant. Only what they would do.

“Zhelaniye. Rzhavet. Semnadstat. Rassvet. Pech. Devyat. Dobroserdechny. Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin. Gruzovoy wagon.”

Steve didn’t know what was supposed to happen now that he’d said the words. The cooling body of the old woman was still bleeding out at his feet, but he had eyes only for Bucky. There was no way to know how much Bucky was aware of in this state. Had he actually seen Steve kill the old hag? Did he realize they were under attack? Did he know the Colonel was Red Room?”

Neither Steve nor Natasha moved, watching Bucky’s stillness, both of them waiting with baited breath as someone began pounding on the outside doors.

“Ya gatov otvietchat,” Bucky finally spoke. His voice was terribly raspy, as if he’d spent hours screaming, or maybe hadn’t spoken in years.

Natasha let out a loud breath, jolting as someone slammed into the doors again. Steve looked from her to Bucky and back again, waiting for her to say something. She didn’t, remaining quiet, her gaze fixed on Bucky.

It took a moment for Steve to realize that Natasha _couldn’t_ be the one to order Bucky, not in this situation. She wasn’t the handler, he was because he had said the codes. 

Steve’s stomach was burning with more than pain when he breathed in and said slowly, “Can you understand me?”

Something flickered in Bucky’s gaze. Not recognition, he was still looking at Steve as if he’d never seen him before in his life, but he was looking _at_ Steve. It wasn’t the blank eyes of a doll any more, the velvet grey gaze had awareness to it, if only situational.

“Angliski,” he said, whatever that meant.

Steve was opening his mouth to speak, when Bucky beat him to it. 

Losing all trace of a Russian accent, he said in perfect English, “What is my mission?”

“Get us out of here,” Steve ordered. He didn’t want to, didn’t want to make Bucky _do_ anything, but he was hurt worse than he wanted to admit, and Natasha was running low on ammunition. If they stayed here any longer the whole mission would be a bust, and not only would they fail to save Bucky, but would lose _any_ chance of _ever_ saving him.

“Acknowledged,” was all Bucky said. 

Steve watched as he climbed from the chair and looked up. Helplessly curious, Steve looked up too, but all he saw was the high industrial-styled ceiling. Looking back to Bucky, he watched him scan the whole room in a glance, the slight downturn of his lips indicating displeasure. Steve had no idea at what exactly, or even if that look meant what it used to. 

“Structural integrity of the door will be compromised in less than sixty seconds,” Bucky informed them. It was pointed, as if Steve was somehow lacking intelligence by not being aware of that fact. When Bucky looked at the two handguns in Natasha's hands, Steve's shield, and his bleeding gut wound, his lips twisted a bit more. “Weaponry inadequate.”

Steve felt judged. Judged and found wanting. When waking the Winter Soldier, he hadn’t been expecting to be told he was a lousy handler within the first minutes after delivering the codes. Then again, Bucky always had been good at getting under his skin. Even now, with no recognition in his eyes, not even mostly human, Steve wanted nothing more than his approval.

Bucky went to the steel door leading directly into the lab, not the corridor that was currently being battered, and climbed up onto it to crouch on the top edge of it. There was only a scant inch of metal, but he balanced easily, almost absently. Steve was captivated.

“Getting out of the line of fire is recommended,” Bucky said gravely.

Glancing at Natasha, she shrugged, but didn’t move. Moving beneath Bucky, he ignored the burn of those eyes on him and held out his hand to Natasha. Smirking, because god this was so fucking stupid, she shifted, bracing her foot against the medical cart and leaped at him. In a long, fluid motion, he caught her in his arms, shielding them both behind the vibranium metal, and threw them sideways. They slid through the dead technician’s blood, but the bullets that rained through the doorway shot harmlessly above them, then behind them. When they stopped, Steve could hardly breathe the pain was so all-consuming from where Natasha’s hip had pressed against the stomach wound. 

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t flinch, looking almost serene crouching there above them until the first Hydra agent was through the door. The guard’s gun was up as he turned towards Steve, bullets spewing in short bursts from his rifle. The white hot pain still searing him, Steve had only enough strength to bring up the shield to cover Natasha. Over its top, he could still see Bucky, and if he was going to die, at least he had a great view.

Bucky’s expression didn't change. The long brown hair was loose, drifting in front of his face as he leaned down. Muscles in his chest and back flexed as Bucky’s metal fist closed over the Hydra agent’s shoulder, clenching tight enough that Steve heard the crunch of bone over the gunfire. In that same, almost lazy manner, Bucky followed. Using his hold on the agent, he flipped him over and locked his legs around the goon crowded behind the one screaming in agony. There was another crunch, and all three of them went down. Even as they fell, Bucky was already twisting with effortless grace that Steve was used to seeing in Natasha, not in men of Bucky’s size. They fell all the harder for the simple motion, Bucky using his weight and momentum to his advantage to crush the two beneath him. Even as he did, the flesh arm caught hold of the rifle the first goon was clutching, pulled it over the man’s shoulder and fired blindly. It wasn’t as though he needed to aim; the corridor leading to the lab forced the agents to crowd close together, like sardines in a tin.

Untwisting his legs from the dead man's neck, Bucky flipped over again to land on his knees facing the oncoming agents. In a flawlessly smooth continuation of movement, he pulled the body of the first agent up to use as a shield. From the sound, at least ten guns opened up, but Bucky was perfectly positioned that the goon’s kevlar vest covered him. The only things outside of its protective range was the metal arm, which was impervious to bullets anyway.

As the left arm held the body-shield up as easily as though it was made of paper, the flesh one rifled through the dead man’s front pockets. The first discovery was several grenades which Bucky placed near his knees. Then came knives; one serrated, one smooth, and one thin, with a long black blade; followed by a small handgun, possibly a Glock, which he tucked at the small of his back.

Bucky cast a glance sideways, checking Steve’s position and his cover before reaching for one of the grenades. It was the longest look Steve had been given since they arrived. Between the shock of it and the pain, Steve didn’t notice what picking up a _grenade_ meant. Natasha did.

 

“Oh shit,” she murmured, turning and bracing herself for the shockwave. It jostled Steve further, and it was all he could do not to cry out.

Pulling the pin with his thumb, Bucky waited a moment before throwing it into the corridor. As panic ensued, Bucky fell sideways to the floor, pulling the dead body over himself like a blanket. The explosion was tight, the grenades luckily calibrated for indoor fighting, but all the more efficient in the tight space. Even Steve, as protected as he was by the shield, was briefly stunned by the shockwave. Ears ringing, he could see Natasha pressed tight to his chest, eyes squeezed shut. Probably fighting off the dizziness too.

When he looked up again, Bucky was not bothered by anything as mundane. He was a blur of movement, throwing his cover away and exploding out of sight into the corridor. As Steve shook off the blast, tried to regain control of his body and mind, he could hear bursts of gunfire and the occasional scream. Then silence. Not settling over them, but an abrupt cessation of all sound.

Carefully rolling Natasha off him, Steve looked up to see Bucky back in the doorway. There was a strap of a rifle slung over his naked chest. What was strange, however, was the dead body he was dragging behind himself by its collar. Steve stared, then slowly let his eyes wander over Bucky, over the body he’d once known so well. Ostensibly it was to assure himself Bucky wasn’t hurt, but he had to admit the man looked good. Bucky’s bare right shoulder was splattered with blood, but after a moment’s panic, Steve realized it wasn’t his.

Incongruously, Steve realised that Bucky was still barefoot. The pale appendages were smeared with the blood he had waded through. Steve flicked his eyes from Bucky’s naked feet, so strangely vulnerable, to his grey eyes, pale and so alien. 

 

“Uh, why did you…” Steve looked at the body, still hanging from Bucky’s metal fist.

“Equipment,” Bucky, or rather the Winter Soldier, responded. His cold eyes focused on Steve with something he couldn’t help but think of as disapproval. “ _Proper_ equipment.”

With a thunk that was even more pointed than the words, Bucky dropped the body, but didn’t move much more. His flesh hand was closed over the rifle slung over his chest, the barrel not quite pointing at Steve and Natasha, but… Something was wrong. It took Steve a moment, but he knew that stance. Bucky was blocking the way out, not guarding it.

The Winter Soldier wasn’t standing down.

“You have not followed standard waking procedure.”

Steve blinked. Well, fuck.

“Is it normal procedure to awaken under attack?” Steve shot back. He wasn’t getting up and neither was Natasha. Provoking Bucky likely wouldn’t end well, and Steve was nowhere near up for a fight with the Winter Soldier right now.

“No,” Bucky said carefully, “What is more concerning,” he dropped the body, flipping back the man’s collar to reveal the silver Hydra insignia, “Is this.” Cold eyes swept over Steve, then Natasha. “You are not Hydra.”

“We are,” Natasha said quickly. “ _They_ aren’t. Colonel Dietrich has gone rogue and taken her people with her. Sold herself to the Americans. Captain Rogers is here to make it right. Bring you back in.”

Though he was in agony, Steve knew the part she was handing him before she’d even finished her second sentence. A part he could play, because before they’d made him a soldier, they’d made him an actor. 

So, he was a Hydra agent. What would a Hydra agent do?

“Hydra was damaged,” Steve said, slowly sitting up, “Attacked after some idiots exposed our existence too soon.” Natasha looked at him, but was too good at this game to look surprised. “Splintered. _These_ imposters aren’t Hydra. They do not follow the mission.”

“You have no insignia,” Bucky repeated, but more hesitantly.

Steve snorted, waving Natasha towards him to help him up. She did, but cautiously.

“The world has changed. Only idiots openly display their allegiance and those idiots quickly die.”

“Cut off one head-”

The words in Bucky’s mouth made Steve want to tear the world apart.

“We are the risen head!” he snarled. “Do you think we _wanted_ to come here, just the two of us? Where’s the rest of our men, Soldier? There _are_ none. We have to rebuild, and why the hell am I arguing with you anyway?! _Stand down_.”

The gun swung towards the floor and Steve might have given them away by breathing easier except he _couldn’t_ through all the pain.

“What is your codename?” Bucky asked.

“This is Black Widow,” Steve answered, stalling as he grasped for a name for himself. What could he say? Captain America? Oh yeah, _that_ would go over well. Besides, he wasn’t any more, not after this. Not after disobeying a direct order. Not that he wanted to follow a country that would allow Hydra to continue. So he was without a country, without a home, but not without a purpose.

“I’m Nomad.”

Bucky nodded and Steve carefully tried to stand on his own. Looking worried, Natasha hovered at his side until he nodded and pressed his fist back over the bleeding hole. 

“Well,” Steve said to Bucky, “Get us out of here.”

The Winter Soldier nodded, just once, and led the way.


	2. Chapter 2

The Soldier shifted his position again, the borrowed boots bothering him. The soles gave too soon and weren’t designed to withstand his full weight. They would need to be replaced. Soon. It was definitely not standard equipment, another sign that this whole mission was extremely unorthodox. Besides the gear, there was the obvious change in handlers during his awakening. Dead bodies weren’t all that uncommon where high-level officials were jockeying for position, and the awakening codes had been delivered correctly, so he had refrained from violence. 

The train swayed, making it harder to stay standing, and he retreated to the seat across from the lower bed. The Widow had pulled the beds out as soon as they’d entered the sleeper car. When she was finished, the handler had gone to the lower, larger bunk and she had busied herself making him comfortable. The Soldier hadn’t watched, taking in the tight space, leaving briefly to ensure he knew the layout of the car, before returning again. By then, she had claimed the upper bunk, sitting cross-legged and texting on a small cellphone. She was asleep now, but she’d spent quite a bit of time tapping away beforehand.

It was another example of unorthodox behavior, willful communication without the handler’s direct oversight was not something that was permitted. Nevertheless, the Widow had been on this assignment before him. He assumed that she, at least, was briefed. Alone, the fact wouldn’t bother him much, but there were too many irregularities as it was. They were piling on and the Soldier was feeling as though he was walking on unsteady ground.

Someone walked past outside and he glanced to the door, tensing for an attack, only relaxing once they’d passed. The handler had managed to walk out of that base under his own power, despite two bullets still inside him, and the two holes others had left behind. They had reached the nearest town before dawn and the Widow secured them the town’s veterinarian to perform surgery. At that point, the Soldier had not expected the handler to survive. A fact that made him uncomfortable. If there wasn’t a base he could return to in case of his handler’s death, he would need to engage other, older protocols to return for debriefing. The debriefing that he still hadn’t _gotten_.

His handler had somehow survived the medical procedure. 

There had been something odd about the way his handler’s skin parted under the scalpel. Something familiar, different, about the way it looked heavy, as if the skin resisted more than any skin should resist a blade. Throughout it all, the Soldier kept a careful eye on the amount of blood his handler was losing. It wasn’t adding up correctly. Nomad should have died even before the vet patched him up, or during the procedure at least. He didn't though. No, the Soldier’s handler had even stumbled to the car the Widow had procured afterward. Despite the pain, despite the massive injuries, he had even walked into the sleeper car when an average human being would have been unconscious from the pain alone.

Nomad should not be sleeping the heavy sleep of those healing serious injuries, looking pale and shaky but very much alive. He should be dead. He wasn’t. It was peculiar. It was…

The arm recalibrated. 

It was like his own enhanced healing. Nomad wasn’t human, he was _enhanced_. 

It was another irregular occurrence. None of his previous handlers were enhanced. They were human. Most of Hydra was human, or had been. The Soldier was uncertain if he believed his handler’s explanations any longer, but he was still the Soldier’s handler. Unless he wasn’t.

The arm recalibrated.

The device the Widow had been using could get him information on whether his handler was telling the truth. 

Carefully easing to his feet, the Soldier rested his weight onto the ladder so it wouldn’t squeak or otherwise give him away. The room was small enough he only needed to raise himself up a foot before he could reach the phone where it lay near her outstretched hand. Moving carefully, because this was potentially enemy territory, his companions potential _enemies_ who were trying to steal him from his rightful owners. If he was wrong, if Nomad was his handler, and was caught disobeying the rules of unsupervised intelligence gathering, he would face punishment and reconditioning. His flesh hand trembled minutely, but he stifled the sign of weakness. He had a goal now, a clear target: to obtain information about recent world events that would threaten Hydra’s integrity and plans on a scale large enough to result in splintering factions. 

It was easier to discover than he expected. His programming told him to access the Internet application on the device. A search engine pulled up recent world events and Hydra’s name was _in the headlines._ They hid in the shadows, they were _never_ in public. The _public_ should never have known they existed.

He stared.

Whatever he had expected it wasn’t Hydra’s name in the headlines. Not, “Captain America takes down Hydra!” Not, “S.H.I.E.L.D. evil Nazi organization all this time!” Not, “Hundreds dead in massive explosion as Hydra’s plan to take over the world is foiled”. 

Not this. Nomad hadn’t lied; Hydra would barely survive exposure to this extent.

In every article was one name: Captain America. It was repeated almost as often as Hydra in the headlines. He clicked the link the search engine offered for more information, and stared again.

His handler’s face stared back at him from the small screen.

Aware of the Black Widow asleep just inches away, he moved fast and quietly. He straddled his handler’s - the imposter’s - hips in the same move as he put the blade of the combat knife under his jugular. One twitch of his fingers and the man would be dead. With his metal hand he covered the man’s mouth before shifting and delivering a swift punch to the liar’s injured belly.

The Captain’s eyes flew open, a cry of pain choked mercilessly by his metal hand.

“Do not wake the Widow,” the Soldier said almost soundlessly, letting Nomad read his lips. “If she wakes I will kill you both.”

The imposter nodded, his eyes clear and showing enough situational understanding for the Soldier to slowly take his hand away from the man’s mouth.

“Steven G. Rogers, codename Captain America,” The soldier raised the phone into the man’s line of sight. “Not Nomad. You have ninety seconds to explain.”

“Explain what?” there was some surprise in his eyes, but he was too calm, “My cover? It’s none of your damn business, Soldier.”

He pressed the knife harder against the man’s neck.

“Proof,” he demanded, still all but soundless and ready to kill. There were too many irregularities, too many conflicting informations. Handler’s words were not enough.

“Proof?” the man’s lip curled up. “Why would I allow there to be proof that I’ve been working for Hydra as a double agent since the ‘40s.”

The Soldier bared his teeth at him.

“I was the first. The only success.”

The handler pushed against the knife, drawing blood.

“Red Skull was the first,” he growled. “Johann Shmidt, founder of Hydra. _I_ came after. You,” his lip curled again, “You’re a copy.”

The Soldier thought for a moment, turning the words in his mind, the possibilities…and did not accept them.

“Seventy years, no success. Hydra would not allow for an asset to remain ineffective for this long. Termination would be ordered,” he growled out.

“Ineffective?” the handler repeated, not seeming as insulted as he should have been. “How the hell would you know?“ Relaxing back onto the bed, away from the Soldier’s knife, he twitched his eyes toward the phone. “Fine. You want proof?”

The Soldier nodded.

“They exposed themselves,” the handler declared. “I did what I had to to keep my cover. It didn't even work, but it was worth it. Give me the phone and I'll show you.”

The Soldier hesitated, but complied. The Captain, Nomad, Steven G. Rogers, his handler, _whoever_ he was, was too calm to be anything but confident. Part of the Soldier hoped now that it was a bluff, because if it wasn't he would suffer for his actions.

Placing the phone in his handler’s hand, he left the knife at the man's throat, but twisted to watch what he was doing. Calling up the search engine, he typed in Hydra Cap and hit go. The results were…prolific. All began similarly: “Whose Side Is Cap On?”, “How Could SHIELD’s Best Not Know?”, and one very obvious, “Captain America is Hydra!”

The handler didn't stop there, though.

“Pierce was an idiot. He made his coup too public, too _soon_. When Fury was killed so publicly - nice work, by the way,” the Soldier blinked; his work? “they knew something was wrong, and they turned to me. That was why Schmit chose to leave me with the Americans, they _trusted_ me. Implicitly. Pierce was no longer suitable to lead anyway. He didn't want order, he wanted obedience to his mad whims. Power not for Hydra, for the good of mankind, but for himself. I couldn't plug the leak, so I sank the ship. I maintained my cover, so did she. We cut off the damaged head so a new one could take it’s place.”

Typing away again, the handler changed the search to “Natalia Alianovna Romanova.” Then he handed it back to the soldier. 

“Read, take your time. I'll wait.”

And he did. The Soldier read everything, all the leaked files on the Black Widow. He didn't know what he was looking for until he found it. Red Room. She wasn't any Black Widow, she was _The_ Black Widow, the one chosen from the girls in the Red Room.

The arm recalibrated.

The Soldier had trained her, helped shape her to receive the newest variation of the serum. The woman was enhanced as well. As old as either of them. 

Defected in the ‘80s. 

Even as he read that, the handler closed his eyes and said, “She joined S.H.I.E.L.D. first. Defected when it became clear Russia would no longer be a major power. We both tried to maintain cover, but, you saw the articles. It became clear the wiser choice was to go to ground. Start over where there weren’t so many eyes watching. Do it right, like Schmit wanted from the beginning. Like we talked about. So,” he looked at the Soldier again, “we came for you. The Fist, Hydra’s strongest weapon, to bring back glory to Hydra. The way it was supposed to be. Peace through order. A better world and it starts with us, like it should have.”

The Soldier knew he was mistaken. Punishment would come soon and he wanted to stall it, but he sat back slowly, withdrawing the knife from his handler’s throat. The man just watched, calm as ever. There was silence, the Soldier breathing deeply to prepare himself. There was also disquiet now, though, as the handler’s information settled into him. Something was very wrong with all of it, but logically he couldn’t figure out what. 

The handler reached for his throat, fingers smearing through the blood before looking at it. Then he looked up, past the Soldier.

“Stand down, it’s fine.”

Snapping his head up to look, the Soldier found the Black Widow watching him calmly, her gun pointed at the top of his head. Slowly, never looking away from him, she lowered the weapon. 

Turning the knife in his hand slowly, he offered the knife handle to his handler. 

“I am ready for punishment.”

His handler went very still, focusing on him with something like rage in his eyes. They flicked to the Widow and the Soldier wondered if she would deliver the punishment. Then his handler took the knife, carefully, slowly. With the same, slow purpose, he took the Soldier’s flesh arm and turned it over. Calloused fingers touched him in what he would have thought a caress from anyone else. The knife followed, a straight line from one side to the other. He watched the way the skin parted, the way the blood welled up and ran down the pale skin of his arm. The cut was shallow, not parting the skin deep enough to show the muscle beneath, not even close to any of the major nerves. The pain was sharp, sweet, but fleeting. 

He expected the handler to continue with a second pass, maybe a third pass. Maybe he would angle the blade to remove a strip of skin completely, maybe dig deeper and cut out a whole muscle. That always hurt the most, not only the removal, but the time while his body struggled to regrow the missing flesh and how hard he would then need to work to develop it to full potential again. His handlers were always angry that the scars never lasted long. It always made them more imaginative the next time he needed behavior modification. And he always needed it, sooner or later. So he waited, not flinching, not moving, for the continuation, for the actual punishment to begin. 

Nothing more happened. His handler turned the knife handle around again and he took it with more than a little confusion.

“For attacking me,” he clarified when they both knew he didn’t have to, “You think for yourself, that I value, but this subject is closed. Is that understood?”

“Understood,” the Soldier confirmed.

“Then get off me, Christ.”

Climbing off, the Soldier returned to his seat. The Widow, he saw, was still watching him. His handler, however, closed his eyes and looked to go right back to sleep. It was impressive, if worrying. 

“He wouldl want you to clean that,” the Widow said quietly.

The Soldier looked down at his arm.

“It was…unorthodox. It should have been,” he knew not to say the word worse, “It was not sufficient penalty for my infraction.”

“Are you questioning him again?”

“No,” the Soldier answered quickly before standing. He could clean the cut in the bathroom, no matter that it would heal quickly. If his handler wanted it, he would obey.

The arm recalibrated. 

A piece of the puzzle was still missing. Something the handler had said, or not said. Something was off about the handler, or the mission. He would remain alert.

\----

Steve’s hands were shaking. He had curled them into the blanket, but he couldn’t make them _stop_. Even breathing, keeping his muscles limp, that was easy. Pretending to sleep was a skill he’d learned as a kid and perfected as he got older. It was all that kept his mom and Bucky from worrying when he got sick. But his hands… He just couldn’t make them _stop_.

“He would want you to clean that,” Natasha said quietly.

“It was…unorthodox,” Bucky’s voice answered, but it was the Soldier, not his childhood friend, his lover of six years, “It should have been… It was not sufficient penalty for my infraction.”

Steve had gathered that. Had understood it the second Bucky had _submitted_ for punishment. How he had not only handed over the knife without asking, but didn’t even watch what Steve was going to do with it. Steve could have cut him open from belly to the throat and he had a sickening feeling that Bucky, the Soldier, wouldn’t say a word. Wouldn’t try to stop him. It had made Steve angier than a wet cat. Not at Bucky, no, at the sick bastards who had done this to him. Who had made him _ask_ to be hurt for questioning the lies he was being fed. At the people who took the most basic parts of his identity, the things that made him not only James Barnes, but a human being. They had perverted them, twisted, outright erased his humanity. No wonder he had never escaped, never fled during a mission; he wasn’t just _obedient_ , he was _loyal_. To Hydra.

It was a struggle to keep his breathing even, to keep quiet, not to just open his mouth and scream and scream and _scream_.

“Are you questioning him again?” Natasha demanded.

“No,” the Soldier answered quickly. At least he didn’t _want_ the punishment.

A moment later the bathroom door clicked and Steve allowed himself a single, ragged breath. It was barely done rattling from his chest when Natasha’s weight dipped the mattress as she crouched over him. 

“You have to hold it together,” she whispered.

Opening his eyes, Steve was relieved see her expression wasn’t angry, or disappointed, or frustrated. It was sad. She knew why he was losing it and didn’t blame him for the loss of control. 

“I cut him,” Steve breathed the words, needing them out, “The things I said, Nat -”

Before he could say more, she was wrapped about him, hugging him to her and he realized his breathing had lost all semblance of calm. It hitched and trembled, but the harsh breaths were swallowed by her...entirely not soft anything. Unable to help himself, Steve wrapped his arms around her back, clinging despite knowing she wasn’t offering comfort. She was trying to keep him quiet; keep their cover because a Hydra agent, a _real_ handler wouldn’t care.

That realization only made Steve shake harder.

The door clicked and Natasha murmured in French for him to just follow her lead. Then she let out this little, flirty laugh and shoved his face into her cleavage and _goddamn it_. This was the last thing he needed right now, but he got the message. Every muscle tense, he forced his hands down her back to her waist, but couldn’t make them go lower.

“Soldier,” she said, a little breathless, “take a walk. Bring back something to eat.”

There was no answer, just an anticipatory silence because of course Bucky wouldn’t take Nat’s words as an order. _He_ was the handler. _He_ needed to give orders otherwise the Soldier would just stand there, silently watching him have sex and, _fucking hell_ , Steve was going to lose it any moment now.

“Go,” he rasped, face pressed firmly in Nat’s cleavage, muffling the sound of the tears that were running down his cheeks, audible in his voice.

Thankfully, the Soldier complied wordlessly and Steve heard the compartment door slide open and closed. Steve gave it a heartbeat before he jerked away, firmly pulling Natasha off him by the hold he had on her waist. There was no resistance; she went, sitting cross legged at his side near his shoulder. Though he was still shaking, Steve wiped his face, pressed his fingers to his eyes.

“You’re doing what you have to,” Natasha assured, still whispering, “The story you came up with was a good one. The proof, too. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than him slitting your throat.”

The shaking became worse, so Steve dropped his hand to his side.

“I’m not sure what’s worse,” he confessed, “that he’s loyal to Hydra, or that he believed me. That Bucky would think I’m -”

“He’s not Bucky,” Natasha hissed. “Not yet. Maybe not ever, depending on what they did to him this last time. If you’re going to do this, Steve, you _have_ to be prepared to play the long game. You have to be prepared to hold this cover for years, if necessary. Can you do that? Because if you can’t, we have to bring him in.”

“Bring him _where_?” Steve demanded. “If we take him to S.H.I.E.L.D. they’ll probably just hand him back to Hydra, or do to him exactly what Hydra has anyways, or _worse_ , they’ll put him down like an animal. None of those are acceptable options. And you saw him Nat; he’s _loyal_. He won’t go quietly. ”

“You’ve never done anything like this, Steve,” Natasha continued, tone gentle again, reminding, not scolding, “It changes you, holding a cover like this. It breaks you in ways you don’t expect. So if you’re gonna do this, you have to _commit_. You can’t crack like you just did. If you do… You might as well just kill the both of us and let him do whatever he will.”

Steve knew she was right. It didn’t change the fact that his stomach was rolling, that he could taste bile at the back of his throat, or feel how his eyes were burning as if somebody had rubbed them with sandpaper. And there was rage, tightly coiled and tempered by misery, sitting just beneath his ribs making it so very hard to breathe.

“I hurt him,” he whispered, hardly even believing he had done that. That _he_ had taken a knife to another person just for being asked a fucking question.

“And you might have to again.”

Slowly taking a deep breath, he nodded and then pushed down the blankets.

“Help me get this damn shirt off.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. Steve rolled his eyes; it had been _her_ idea.

“We’re having sex, remember? I can barely sit up, so that’s pretty fucking stupid, but we wouldn’t keep our clothes on.”

The expression she gave him wasn’t one he knew, but she moved to help strip him of the stolen t-shirt and sweats.

“That’s very pragmatic of you.”

“Pragmagic, my middle name,” he bit out sarcastically.

Natasha snorted.

“Don’t worry, Rogers, I did all the work. As usual.”

Steve couldn’t help it, he laughed. This pain was _his_ punishment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Se tried the RTF formatting and will not be trying it again any time soon. Anybody knows how to avoid the double spaces between the paragraphs when using RTF let us know.

Chapter 3 

\----

Every time Steve saw that white bandage he wanted to break something, hurt something, preferably himself. It was the first time in his life that he had hurt someone, not in a fight, but with the sole purpose to just do harm. To cut flesh and cause pain. It twisted something inside him. 

Worse, he couldn’t quite trust that Bucky would take care of the wound correctly, or that it would heal properly, unless he checked it. When Steve asked to see Bucky’s arm, he didn’t hesitate, just sat down across from him, pulled his sleeve up and put the arm on the table between them. The detached efficiency of the movements, the totally still expression on Bucky’s face, made it hard for Steve to control his breathing. Hard to make this just an inspection. 

It was what happened next that broke Steve’s heart so completely he felt like he would never again be whole. Bucky reached behind himself and pulled out the thin, sharp knife from somewhere on his person _and handed it to Steve_. 

Eyes burning, keeping his mind carefully blank, Steve unbandaged Bucky’s forearm. The line of raised, pink tissue was only a day old, but the wound looked looked days old, healing only a little slower than Steve’s body would. His fingers itched to touch, to feel if it was as healed as it looked, but he kept his hands to himself. It was bad enough that his body reached for Bucky the way it always had; he had to control himself sometimes.

Glancing up from the mending arm to Bucky’s face, Steve went still as he saw nothing there. No fear, no anticipation. Nothing. It was as if Bucky was completely separated from his body, from whatever pain he was feeling, from whatever pain he _expected_ , since he had given Steve the knife. It was the same expression he’d worn when Steve was cutting his arm open. His face wasn’t _blank_. Bucky was there, unlike the way he had looked in the chair at the Hydra base. No, he looked calm. That calm hadn’t budged an inch as Steve had cut him, sliced him open. It hadn’t been _deep_ , but it had had to have hurt. Bucky never showed it. He had only showed expression, surprise, when Steve _stopped_ hurting him. Because someone had told him that wasn’t enough. Just bleeding wasn’t _enough_ of a punishment for questioning his handler, for hurting him. Steve couldn’t even imagine what he must expect if he failed a mission.

Chest feeling like it was filled with rubble, heavy and full of sharp edges, it occurred to Steve that Bucky must have been punished after failing to kill them on that bridge. 

Steve wrapped a clean bandage around Bucky’s arm. He didn’t need to have it covered, but Steve couldn’t bear to look at the fresh scar. It felt as if he would choke if he even caught a glimpse of it.

“Does it hurt?” Steve asked before he had the time to think about what he was saying. Instantly, he wanted to take the words back, but it was too late. Bucky’s eyes were already swinging back to his, looking confused for a moment before his face became cold again. An unfeeling mask Steve tried to emulate. 

Bucky’s eyes swung back to the knife, still lying on the table.

“Do you want it to?”

Steve closed his eyes, willing himself to swallow whatever expression was threatening to show on his face.

“No.” Steve managed to keep his voice even. “You are not allowed to hurt without my say so.”

Bucky looked surprised again, the micro-expressions flicking over his face with lightning speed before it smoothed out into his usual mask. Steve never would have seen them if he didn’t know that face so well.

“Acknowledged.”

 

\----

The thing about laying low was that it was boring as hell. There was nothing for Steve to distract himself, nothing but watching Bucky. 

Nat had taken the second bedroom of their suite once she felt Steve was well enough to protect himself and, due to her unique talents for subterfuge, she could wander the train freely under one disguise or another. The thing was, once she was gone Steve was left with only Bucky for company. The Soldier who acted like an extremely twitchy bodyguard.

Every time somebody passed their rooms, Bucky’s hand would go to his weapon, his senses even sharper than Steve’s. He wouldn’t leave Steve alone; either he or Natasha had to be present at all times. He established a routine that first night, his arm still bleeding. It suggested that he had run protection for valuable targets before. It was a constant reminder that he couldn’t forget, not for a second that Bucky, the Soldier, was loyal to Hydra. If Steve made too many mistakes, the Soldier could and would turn on them.

During the middle of the day, when Natasha escaped for hours - probably tired of the silent misery Steve projected at her every moment she was there - Steve had nothing to do but watch Bucky and Bucky was…not _Bucky_ at all. He was The Soldier; the being perfectly distilled into what Hydra saw as a weapon. He was silent, not speaking, not engaging with Steve at all. He patrolled every four hours, then checked all rooms upon re-entering the suit. Like clockwork. Like ritual. It drove Steve a little mad. He checked the windows, made a visual sweep of Steve’s form without actually looking at him, and then cleaned his weapons. He sharpened his knives. He trained.

When Steve trained, he needed miles of space to run, or a gym to destroy. He needed to move, to twist his body, stretch his muscles, feel something against his fists. When the Soldier trained, he was almost completely still. There was limited space in the suite as it was, especially with the bed pulled out all the time for Steve to use. The Soldier didn’t need much space though. 

Most of his training seemed to be a mix of Tai Chi and yoga, assuming a position and holding it for ages, then changing it excruciatingly slowly. It made Steve grit his teeth in frustration just watching. Made his own muscles ache in protest because it must have hurt, that kind of strength and control. Steve didn’t train like that, but he knew it used the Soldier’s own body as weight. 

With nothing else to occupy the time, to occupy his mind, Steve watched him. Watched as Bucky’s body warmed up. Watched his skin eventually flush with exertion, beading slightly with sweat. He was wearing his combat pants and a white t-shirt, a different one from before. From what he could see, it was a poor quality cotton, possibly bought from a conductor. It was a size too small, stretching over his chest, delineating the shape of his pectoral muscles. 

Bucky had always been built well, thanks to good genes, and later, because of his work at the docks. The Army had only enhanced him further, but he had never looked like this. He had never had such dense muscle mass. Now, he looked heavy, his whole frame tight. Something in the way he walked with slow, deliberate menace brought violence to mind. Like an attack dog. Steve had wide shoulders, but his chest tapered off to slim hips which gave him unrealistic proportions. The Soldier, however, was very proportional. His shoulders were wide, but his chest was as well. His waist was thicker than Steve’s, and his thighs were thicker than Steve remembered, more muscled. Those legs alone looked like one kick would break a man. 

More than the heavier, denser muscle, it was the way Bucky carried it that jarred and fascinated Steve. He was so casual about it. Steve always had to be careful not to dwarf people, not to make them feel threatened by his sheer size. The Soldier lived and breathed his physical superiority. The way he walked suggested he did not care if people were uncomfortable with his size or the sheer danger he presented. His movements were always slow, measured, and deliberate. 

There was also the arm. It looked to be made of metal, but Steve remembered the way it hit, and it could not have been any regular alloy. It made a sound when Bucky fought, a strange whine, but remained quiet otherwise. There was something very compelling in how it was crafted to appear human, all muscles delineated, how it _imitated_ the real thing. The metal fingers could grasp the smallest of objects. Steve once watched fascinated as Bucky used his metal hand to pick up and turn over a flyer left in their room, the metal digits gleaming in the dim room light. The Soldier always turned towards any perceived threat so that his left arm was facing it. 

The Soldier used the arm as if it was an extension of himself, actually used it even more than he used his flesh hand. Steve itched to take a closer look, to see how it worked, how it moved up close, to feel how the metal would behave under his fingertips, but he wouldn’t _dare_ try. It was a Hydra weapon and as a handler he should already be well aware of all its capabilities. Natasha had reminded him not to ask questions to which he should already know the answers. 

Nevertheless, the arm both fascinated and repelled Steve because it was everything Bucky was not.

The ease in his body was nothing new, but that _awareness_ was. The menace, the promise of violence just from getting too near. Bucky had never been shy about throwing his bulk around, could scare guys off just by walking towards them. But the Soldier had taken it to a new level. What Steve missed most, though, was Bucky’s casual grace, the movements of his hands when he talked. The Soldier was _graceful_ , but it was all deliberate, never accidental. But still he _expressed_ nothing. He plain didn’t talk, let alone gesture with his hands or his head. Steve missed it, ached for it. Missed the easy smiles, the playful winks, the sheer _number_ of expressions that Bucky had been capable of. The Soldier still had his twitches, his tells, the little details that Steve had learned over decades at his side. But it wasn’t…it wasn’t _Bucky_. It was his face, his hair, his _body_ , but like someone had stolen it. 

The long hair was at once one of the most different things about Bucky, and one of the easiest to accept. It was likely an effect of neglect, but suited this strangely animalistic version of his best friend. Bucky also used it unconsciously, lowering his face slightly so the hair would fall forwards, obscuring it from sight when he or Natasha was looking too closely. Steve watched the Soldier make tiny little motions to toss it back, but never used his hands to actually move the strands. 

The most irritating difference was that he was never clean shaven, the scruff growing fast enough to become a full beard any moment. Bucky had been fastidious about shaving. Now he looked older with the scruff shadowing his jaw, though oddly more vulnerable. It deepened the shadows under his eyes, made the dark circles all the more visible in his startlingly pale face. Steve wanted to tell him to shave. There were safety razors in the bathroom, but didn’t dare. Not because he thought Bucky would refuse. That wasn’t an option for the Soldier. Steve was starting to understand that Bucky would not refuse anything Steve ordered. No, what stopped him was that with a clean shave, he would look exactly like the Bucky from his memories. Without one, it was obvious he wasn’t Steve’s Bucky. Was irritatingly, frustratingly, _not_ the man who once loved him.

Knowing that, but seeing that face… Steve didn’t think he could handle it.

\----

The Soldier didn’t tense, but his whole attention shifted to the hand on his shoulder. The handler was touching him again, his hand lingering on the spot where the neck of his stolen shirt stretched, exposing a sliver of flesh. The handler shifted his hand minutely, the little finger skimming over the Soldier’s skin.

He froze, unsure of what he was supposed to do. The handler acted so oddly around him. He gave orders, but only about the strangest of things. If he wanted to touch the Soldier, that was allowed. There was no explanation for this odd, almost furtive behavior.

“Do you wish to examine me?” he asked finally, confused if he was allowed to move and go on his scheduled patrol of the sleeper car, or was he to stay with the handler?

The fingers jerked back, only confusing the Soldier more.

“No!” Nomad said too harshly, too nervously, withdrawing his hand as if burned. “You can go, um, patrol.”

\----

The handler and the Widow were talking in French again. Excluding him. They had begun doing that more often than the Soldier liked. 

Did they know he still mistrusted them? No, or the handler would have punished him again. Did they believe him a security risk? Possibly. He had threatened them on two occasions. Perhaps whatever mission objective they were on was…

The Soldier didn’t know what mission objective could warrant such incessant chatter. He wished they would just be quiet. The only time they were was when the Widow left, or they slept. An ache had begun at the base of his skull, twisting down through the arm and steadily growing. Throbbing in time with their yammering.

“What is the mission objective?” 

Silence at his question. Blessed silence. Except, the handler was now watching him. Assessing, seeing more than even the Widow, and the Soldier did not know why. He kept his face blank, realizing he should not have spoken. That he was again questioning the handler. There would be punishment.

The Soldier flexed his bandaged arm and the handler’s eyes went to it like a magnet.

“The mission,” the handler said slowly, “at the moment, is to remain unnoticed. We have sources gathering information. When we find a safe place, we can begin to rebuild. Do you require any other information?”

The Soldier required only the information that the handler offered. Only what was deemed mission-critical. This information… was not. This was an answer simply because he had asked for one. It was unorthodox. It was a continuation of the strange words the handler had spoken after his first punishment, that he _valued_ the Soldier’s ability to reason, question. 

He would have to test the handler. Discover if this was weakness, or if it was something else.

\----

“We’re resupplying.”

The Soldier looked up at the handler, wondering why he was being told. Was this another one of the strange things Nomad did, or mission-critical?

“Your gear,” the handler said slower, “What is it you want?”

Want? The Soldier was not allowed _want_. There was need, priority, never _desire_. He obeyed, did what was required, he never -

The handler laid his hand on the metal arm, the same as he had done the flesh one not hours before. Just above the bicep, gentle, only a slight pressure. The sensors in his plates folded in on themselves first, touch always meaning an attack, and overwhelming him with pain would be counterintuitive. After a moment where nothing happened, the sensors flared open again though, slowly, cautiously feeding him more sensation. The handler was always touching, but this was… He didn’t know what to do with this. No one touched the arm unless it required repair or maintenance.

“What is it your require for optimal efficiency?”

The Soldier made himself a blank mask, watching the handler. If he could see the emotions, could guess why the Soldier did not answer, why was he not being reconditioned? Why did the handler allow so many deviations from standard protocol? The only explanation the Soldier had thought plausible was that the time with S.H.I.E.L.D. had made him soft. Except it hadn’t dulled his reflexes, or stopped him killing three squads of defected Hydra teams. Alone, if the Soldier had read the scene correctly. 

“You know what I require,” the Soldier said, agitated more than he wished to let on.

The handler sighed. The hand on the metal arm didn’t move.

“I know what I would choose for you, what I think would be best. You know what is actually best.”

That was true, but the Soldier had never had a handler admit to being anything less than omniscient. Then again, he had never had a handler that would fight as he assumed Nomad had fought to reach him.

“I will make a list.”

The hand was withdrawn.

“Give it to Natasha.”

\----

There was a brush against Steve’s leg and he glanced down to find Bucky’s thigh against his knee. Absently he smiled. The Soldier didn’t seem to notice that he had started sitting closer, standing closer, leaning into Steve’s hand just a fraction when the traitorous appendage reached for Bucky. This, however, was new. 

Looking up, the Soldier didn’t seem to have noticed they were now touching, just continued carefully caring for his knives. There were a good dozen now, at least, since Natasha had resupplied them. New clothes for himself and Natasha, as well as a few odds and ends like a sketchbook, some pencils, and a Kindle for reading. Simple things so Steve didn’t lose his mind alone here with this constant reminder that Bucky was lost. 

Lost, but seeking his touch. Like a cat that had been struck by so many people, but still craved being petted. Now that he had had contact that hadn’t hurt, he wanted more. 

Setting down the sketchbook, Steve picked up the Kindle and pulled up his latest historical biography. Then he allowed his hand to do what it had wanted every moment of every day for awhile now: he set it on Bucky’s knee. 

The Soldier’s head came up immediately, looking at him, searching for orders or intent. Steve made himself read the words on the electronic page, didn’t look, didn’t react. After a long moment, the Soldier looked away again. 

A few minutes later, the pressure against Steve’s hand increased. Just a fraction, hardly noticeable unless you were waiting for it, but enough that Steve knew his touch was wanted.

\----

“Why have you not been performing your duties?”

The question drew Steve’s gaze up from the tablet he held between himself and Natasha. They were sitting on the upper bunk, reviewing possible safe houses and talking freely in French. It was the only way they could be themselves, not follow the act and the parts they had been assigned. They only way they didn’t have to be every inch Hydra fanatics since the Soldier couldn't understand them.

It took him a moment to realize the Soldier wasn’t talking to him. 

“Excuse me?” Natasha demanded.

The Soldier was standing in front of her, moving easily with the motions of the train. The tension was there in his shoulders, his arms. His attention was focused on Natasha so sharply, so completely, it sent shivers down Steve’s back. It screamed danger, threat, even more than normal. He didn’t do anything obvious, didn’t reach for his weapons, but Steve realised that Natasha was quickly sliding from ally to enemy in the Soldier’s mind.

“Nomad is frustrated and it does not change. You are not performing your duties.”

“What the hell does he mean?” Steve quickly demanded in French, but he kept his gaze on the Soldier. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have seen the way the small muscle in his cheek clenched. Except it wasn’t possible for the Soldier to be jealous. Was it? It was an expression he’d only seen in Bucky after Azzano, so…maybe Steve was wrong.

“When I perform my duties is not up to you,” Natasha responded to the Soldier coldly.

The Soldier shifted a little, facing Natasha more fully. Her snapping at him had a completely different effect than Steve snapping. With Steve the Soldier folded like wet paper, but with Nat he looked ready to…hurt her. There was a hint of contempt in his expression now, something that suggested he found Nat _lacking._

“Fulfilling the handler’s needs, all his needs, is your _duty_. If you are not performing to his satisfaction, protocol states corrective action should be taken.”

Steve’s breath hitched because he already knew how brutal corrective action in the Soldier’s opinion should be. Doing nothing wasn’t an option. At least he thought he knew what the Soldier was talking about now. Sex, like that first night they’d feigned intercourse to cover Steve’s breakdown. However, having sex with, or _hurting_ , Nat also was unacceptable. 

“I don’t normally prefer the company of women,” Steve said carefully. When the Soldier’s focus switched to _him_ , it was an effort not to flinch. “I’m not opposed to it, but,” he shrugged, “simply put, I don’t want her to perform that duty.”

“Do you wish me to take her place?” the Soldier spoke matter-of-factly. “This body might not be optimal, but it should be adequate enough.”

The pragmatic statement made Steve drop the tablet. Heat suffused his face and the Soldier’s eyes flicked across his features, picking out every little thing Steve couldn’t hide. His desire, his longing, because while Bucky was gone, Steve well remembered what that body was capable of. Over him, under him, inside him, around him. Steve remembered all of it and it didn’t help he hadn’t gotten laid since, well, Bucky.

“The last handler to attempt that regretted it,” Natasha said, as cold as ever.

The plates of Bucky’s metal arm shifted suddenly, without warning, making that alien, click-clacking sound he heard first time when he was fighting Bucky in DC.

Steve would have jumped on Nat’s offering, but the _look_ in the Soldier’s eyes… Steve hadn’t thought Bucky’s eyes could look so hostile, so full of hate and rage and sheer desire to kill. It took all the ardor right out of him, leaving him nauseous with the reminder that _this_ was not his Bucky. Natasha felt it too, that _intent _, and shifted closer to his side.__

__“Stand down,” Steve growled, heart trying to beat out of his chest. He’d not a clue what Natasha was referring to, but apparently a reference to what had happened to the other handler was one the Soldier didn’t want anyone to know. Part of him was desperate to understand, and part of him _never wanted to know_ about someone trying to use Bucky for their own satisfaction. A darker, meaner part hoped Bucky had destroyed the bastard._ _

__The Soldier, still glaring, slowly sat down._ _

__Steve took a deep breath and looked to Natasha. They both needed a breath, an escape, at least for a little while._ _

__“Help me down. Past time I started trying to walk around.”_ _

__\----_ _

__“What are you doing?”_ _

__The Soldier went still, looking slowly from the device in his hands - the forbidden, stolen phone - to find the handler watching him. Sitting up, Nomad rubbed at his eye and then shook himself before sitting up. Focusing on him, glancing again at the phone._ _

__The handler held out his hand and the Soldier placed the phone in it. Silently, he went through the information, studying what he’d been looking at. The Soldier had covered his tracks, but he couldn’t hide it all. Not what he was looking at moments before. Perhaps he had missed something else. None of that was important; he was not allowed the device at all. He knew unsupervised communication was against the rules, so hiding his online activity was important._ _

__Pressing the button on the side, the handler turned off the little screen. The Soldier began to reach for a knife, but then the phone was being offered to him. Returned to him._ _

__“A phone was not on the list,” the handler said evenly._ _

__That was it?_ _

__The Soldier carefully took the phone and eyed Nomad warily, relying on the dark room to hide his expression. Apparently that _was_ it, as the handler just settled back onto his bed. Made himself comfortable._ _

__“Go to sleep,” Nomad demanded. “I know you’d rather stay on guard, but I don’t care. Just do it.”_ _

__The Soldier stared. He had never been ordered to sleep. Sometimes he was allowed rest, even rarer still actual sleep. But never before had he been _ordered_ to sleep. Yet it was a direct order. The Soldier had to obey._ _

__“Where?” he found himself asking._ _

__Nomad opened his eyes, then pointed at the upper bunk, the one the Widow had used while the handler was healing initially. The Soldier stared at it, then climbed up, carefully easing himself down to lie on the soft mattress. To his surprise, sleep came easy, stealing over him once he released the hold he’d had on the exhaustion of staying awake for nearly six days straight._ _

__When he woke, the Soldier found he could think more clearly, react faster. Perhaps, there were some things this handler did the others could have learned from, if it meant he was more effective._ _

__\----_ _

__“I don’t know Nat, are you sure we should allow him access to the phone?”_ _

__“It’s for the best. If we took it away, he would just steal another from somewhere and keep that one _hidden_. This way we can at least verify what he’s looking at.”_ _

__“I’m not sure what to think. He was looking at the Washington Post site of all things, so it can’t be that dangerous. Maybe he just wants to be-up-to date on the current state of affairs?”_ _

__Natasha hummed._ _

__“Papers were always a good place for a dropbox though.”_ _

__Steve sighed,_ _

__“Thank you. Just what I needed to feel better.”_ _

__“It’s what I do best, after all. Optimism.”_ _

__Steve couldn’t help himself, he snorted_ _

__“Let me at least secure the phone with a password. He’ll have to ask me for it the next time he uses it.”_ _

__“That’s not a bad idea,” Nat agreed, giving him the phone. “Make it at least somewhat difficult to guess.”_ _

__“Ha ha,” Steve muttered as he entered a random string of numbers, focused more on memorizing them than on coming up with something witty._ _

__\---_ _

__Steve was watching the Soldier even more carefully now. Not just looking, memorizing, inspecting, but learning what Bucky’s expressions meant on the Soldier’s face. He was starting to learn that it wasn’t the weapons that indicated the Soldier had murder on his mind; those were ever present and close at hand. No, it was the _focus_. Normally the Soldier looked right through a person, but sometimes it settled, so heavy, so sharp, it felt like a physical weight. _That _was when Steve had to worry.___ _

____It took Steve a while to connect the dots, but he was starting to realise that the more he talked with Natasha in French, excluding the Soldier, the more openly hostile the Soldier became towards Nat. The more often that focus settled on his friend. When that happened, more often than not, she would then go to her suite, or wander the train. The Soldier would watch her go, eyes so cold and dark they could never be Bucky’s, and the pit in Steve’s stomach would grow a little wider._ _ _ _

____What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to _do_? If he said anything, the Soldier would expect to be punished and Steve needed to avoid that at all costs. _ _ _ _

____So he watched the Soldier watch Natasha and tried to to think of something, anything to break the cycle because there was no good way this would end._ _ _ _

____\----_ _ _ _

____Steve was a weak person. He knew the Soldier wouldn’t couldn't say no, but still he pushed. He would touch him sometimes, the ache in his chest too much to stand. He wanted to talk to the Soldier so badly, wanted to ask if he remembered anything, wanted to tell him all the memories he might be missing. Steve wanted to touch him, to find all his hurts and comfort them, wanted to feed him, to make him rest, but he couldn't do any of that. He couldn’t do anything, nothing but _watch _. Not a single thing without breaking character.___ _ _ _

______It was tiring, so exhausting, being so close and yet so damned far away. He…slipped sometimes, touched Bucky more than he should. He knew he was doing it, but couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t pass up the only thing he could have of his former lover, even as wrong as it was._ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve shifted so that he was closer to the Soldier, and put his hand on his arm. The man immediately stilled, his whole body freezing. His head snapped up from the gun he was cleaning to Steve’s face, searching for an order, indication of what Steve wanted from him. It was hard for Steve not to project the low-level lust burning in his belly all hours of the day, not showing what he really wanted._ _ _ _ _ _

______“As you were,” Steve said hoarsely._ _ _ _ _ _

______The Soldier’s eyes turned sharp for a moment, clear as they bore into him, before he turned back to what he’d been doing. His body was tilted slightly towards the hand on his arm, pressing into the touch minutely. Steve wondered if he was so touch-starved he didn’t even realise what he was doing, or if it was something else. The first possibility, with him so starved, so denied the simplest human contact, that he would lean into the hands that cut him open just days before sickened Steve down to his very bones._ _ _ _ _ _

______The other option was that the Soldier was just doing what he perceived Steve wanted, and that was even worse._ _ _ _ _ _

______Bucky might have been the broken one, but if this lasted as long as Natasha thought it would, Steve would be the one who shattered._ _ _ _ _ _

______\----_ _ _ _ _ _

______He looked at the phone, its black plastic cover catching the light passing beyond the window in regular intervals. It was very quiet, everybody was asleep. Even his handler was sleeping deeply, quietly on the bottom bed._ _ _ _ _ _

______The phone was resting on the table, half-covered by the Kindle his handler had put down before curling up for the night. The Soldier knew he shouldn't, but he still reached down from the upper bunk, hooking his metal fingers over the safety strap and pulled it towards him. He brought it close to his face, edging back, to make sure the light from the screen wouldn’t disturb his handler and wouldn’t be visible under the door separating the Black Widow from them._ _ _ _ _ _

______The phone was locked, asking for the password to be entered. The Soldier pressed his metal thumb to the glowing screen. The digit ached strangely for a moment._ _ _ _ _ _

______The phone rebooted. No password was requested this time_ _ _ _ _ _

______\----_ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve was walking the cramped little corridor that ran the length of the carriage. It wasn’t much, not even for a completely normal person, but healing the bullet wounds in his belly without actual access to a hospital was a painful process. He had started taking short walks two days ago and was already feeling better. Well, better in a relative sense. After he’d stopped shaking and his skin had stopped feeling clammy, it was nice to finally move after days of being forced to lie flat on his back._ _ _ _ _ _

______Passing the suite two away from theirs, he glanced at the door and shook his head. It was full of twenty-something men, who’d all been merrily drinking themselves stupid for the last two days. Steve could hear them, partying, shouting and cursing through half the night, then sleeping their binge off just to repeat it the next evening._ _ _ _ _ _

______Turning back, he took a step away when the door opened and one of the men stumbled out. He was Caucasian, tall, had short blond hair, and the kind of wide shoulders that meant long hours at the gym and no actual training in combat. Between the alcohol and the swaying of the train, his balance was shot to hell and he wasn’t done partying yet. There was a beer bottle in his hand._ _ _ _ _ _

______The guy stumbled, not even looking his way, and began to fall. Steve resigned himself to the inevitable collision that would probably hurt like hell._ _ _ _ _ _

______There was a blur of movement, a yelp and suddenly the Soldier was there, somehow managing to insert his huge frame between Steve and the man. He had the other man pressed face-first against the suite wall, one beefy arm twisted painfully behind his back, and the Soldier’s hard body pressed close, hiding the fact he was restraining the man._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Watch where you are going,” the Soldier growled out into the man’s ear in a low, hoarse voice that sent shivers down Steve’s back. He sounded like walking death, hollow and sure. As if there was no doubt his words would be obeyed._ _ _ _ _ _

______The Soldier stepped back and the guy turned to look him, then at Steve. He was still pale, but hunched over now, sweating. Then his eyes turned back to the Soldier, who remained mere inches away, radiating that unmistakable killing intent. No one could ignore it, not even a drunk idiot._ _ _ _ _ _

______The guy looked a lot more sober as he mumbled an apology and disappeared back into his suite, his original purpose abandoned._ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve looked to the Soldier, opened his mouth to thank him and quickly changed the words to, “Well done. Didn’t notice you following me,” because that’s what a handler would care about._ _ _ _ _ _

______\----_ _ _ _ _ _

______The second he stepped out of the shower, Steve knew something was wrong. Natasha was standing stiffly, too perfectly straight, but with her hands too casually at her hips. The Soldier was leaning forward in her space, growling something in Russian that Steve just didn’t understand. Neither looked at him, not even a glance, and that only confirmed his suspicions._ _ _ _ _ _

______Natasha answered, her face blank and expressionless, her tone explanatory. Later, she was going to have to tell him what they were saying so Steve could make sure he kept their stories consistent._ _ _ _ _ _

______Right in the middle of her sentence, the Soldier backhanded her across the face. It was so fast, neither Steve nor Natasha had time to react. She stumbled, falling against the bottom bed, but didn’t let out so much as a whimper. The Soldier pulled his hand back a second time and Steve grabbed it, twisting it up and behind Bucky’s back, then using that as leverage to slam him against the train window. There was no resistance, just a grunt as he went where Steve wanted._ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve remembered fighting Bucky in DC, how fast he had reacted, how he’d hit like a fucking freight train. No mercy, all precision. His adaptability was stunning in the way he hadn’t let the shield hit him and kept snatching it from the air to throw back at Steve. It had been a shock because nobody had ever done anything like that. Nobody had just snatched the shield from its intended path to use against Steve. Nobody challenged Steve the way he had.._ _ _ _ _ _

______Now he just submitted, his body yielding with a sickening ease as Steve pushed. He was going to have nightmares about the whole damn situation._ _ _ _ _ _

______“The hell do you think you’re doing?” Steve shouted._ _ _ _ _ _

______Though he pressed his metal arm against the window, the Soldier didn’t attempt to push Steve off him, didn’t so much as breathe harder, completely pliant under Steve’s hands. It was a stark contrast to the deadly menace of a moment before, and the aggression towards Natasha._ _ _ _ _ _

______“The Widow is manipulating you,” he said bluntly, “You are compromised. I was putting a stop to it.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve stared, the Soldier twisting his neck around to look at him. Steve clenched his jaw because he couldn’t even hint at how those words affected him, Steve looked to Natasha._ _ _ _ _ _

______“You all right?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Had worse,” she snapped._ _ _ _ _ _

______Taking the hint, Steve looked back at the Soldier who was baring his teeth. There was something disturbingly animalistic in his reactions, the way he expressed threat. It twisted Steve’s stomach as it was a sign of how deeply Hydra had changed Bucky._ _ _ _ _ _

______“This is exactly the problem,” he growled, “She is a tool for your use, not some woman you care for.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“I am not compromised,” Steve insisted._ _ _ _ _ _

______“You call her Nat, or Natasha, like she is a person. She is the Widow. Nothing more, but she has made you think she cares about you. So you allow her to get away without punishment, allow her to give you _orders_. You allow her to give _me_ orders! You are compromised, Nomad. The Widow has used her skills to twist your mind. It has to end.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Cold settled into the pit of Steve’s stomach. He simply didn’t know enough about Hydra, about the protocols and rules that they had followed with the Soldier over the years. He couldn’t ask, couldn’t just _guess_ ; he had to put a stop to these comparisons. Had to ensure the Soldier stopped questioning him, questioning Natasha, and he had to make sure the point went home. Bile was already burning in his throat, filling his mouth with stinging soreness, and his skin beaded with cold sweat. _ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve was going to pay for what he was about to do for years to come._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Natasha, go take a walk,” he said quietly, ignoring the low growl the Soldier emitted at her name until the door slid shut. Then he grabbed the Soldier’s arm, yanked him back and slammed him into the window again. The growl stopped instantly._ _ _ _ _ _

______Natasha had warned him about this, that he would have to hurt Bucky again. Steve had heard her, knew she was right, but he hadn’t let himself believe it. Now there was no avoiding the truth. When they had found Bucky in that chair Steve had known how selfish it was to want to save Bucky without everyone telling him it would be more merciful to stop him. He had been so naive, so fucking optimistic about _saving_ Bucky. Now he was learning what Sam had seen from the beginning. To even reach Bucky, Steve would have to make himself part of the world that had created him, the only world he knew. He would have to _act_ like Hydra, not just declare himself to be them._ _ _ _ _ _

______Forcing away the throat tearing sickness, the wrongness of everything, Steve made himself embrace the role of Hydra handler. Pulled up the worst of himself and shoved everything else away._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Let me explain this in a way an animal like you will understand,” Steve said, lacing his voice with contempt, not allowing it to betray his true feelings. “It’s a new world. A _new_ Hydra. I don’t care how things were done with your old handlers. I don’t care how they were done in the Red Room. This _isn’t_ the Red Room, and all your handlers are dead, or captured. Yes, _captured_ because they wouldn’t kill themselves as was their duty. So let me make this clear just once.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Pulling a knife from the Soldier’s waist, Steve pressed it against his side and pushed. It slid in effortlessly, parting skin and muscle and slotting beneath his ribs. Steve had been careful it didn’t touch any organs, but it hurt enough that the Soldier sucked in a breath and the focus left the Soldiers’ grey eyes. The feel of it, how easily the steel parted flesh, seared so deeply into his mind he doubted he could pick up a knife again now without remembering this moment._ _ _ _ _ _

______“You follow _my_ rules. _My_ word is law. We are a new Hydra, _better_ than the old. I have tools, plenty of goddamn tools. I need _soldiers_. I need _minds_ working on our problems. Tell me, _Soldier_ , what problems of mine have you solved? From where I’m standing, you only cause them.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Carefully Steve turned the knife handle, tearing flesh and muscle, _hurting Bucky_ , and hated himself more than even Schmit. Even Zola. The Soldier’s breath only hitched._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Natasha has earned her privileges,” he withdrew the blade swiftly, blood staining his hand and flowing freely down the Soldier’s side. “You have not. Am I understood?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Understood,” the Soldier grunted._ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve released his arm, pressing his hand hard against the now-bleeding wound. The knife he wiped on the Soldier’s black jeans before sliding it back into its place. When he looked up, Bucky’s eyes were watching him, surprise and caution flickering, and then vanishing._ _ _ _ _ _

______“You do not enjoy correcting my behavior.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______It took all of Steve’s self control not to react to that statement, to the implication that Bucky’s handlers normally _did_ enjoy it._ _ _ _ _ _

______“You are useless to me if this is the only way you can learn,” Steve said coldly. “I need to rely on you, not monitor your every moment like a fucking babysitter. You’re a weapon, not a child. Act like it.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______The Soldier nodded slowly so Steve stepped away._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Deal with that and do it properly. Do not allow it to become infected.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Acknowledged.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______The Soldier stepped into the bathroom and Steve pressed his forehead against the window. It was cool, the vibrations easily distracting from the roiling sickness in his belly, from the way his hands were shaking, from the way his skin felt cold and clammy. He wanted to scream and rail against the fucking injustice of it all, the unfairness, the unmitigated cruelty. He couldn’t though. He couldn’t do anything but stand there and take it, be quiet, be strong, and probably do it again and again…_ _ _ _ _ _

______When the Soldier came out again, Steve had gotten himself under control. At least, that’s what he called it. Control, not numbness, not a hollow nothing where his guilt had been. There was no place here for _guilt_. He had to keep Bucky safe, keep him from Hydra and wait for him to remember, to…get better. Whatever Steve had to do until then, he would do it. Even if it destroyed him._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Take a walk,” Steve said, watching the Soldier’s reflection in the window. “Tell Natasha to come in. Don’t come back into the room unless I call for you.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______The Soldier nodded, no trace of pain on his face. He had a fresh stab wound, one purposefully aggravated, but he wasn’t showing it. Steve wished he would, wished there was some evidence of what he had done, some proof._ _ _ _ _ _

______\---_ _ _ _ _ _

______ _ _ _ _

______The wound in his side was a pulsing; hot point of pain, but he ignored as he walked the length of the sleeper car. There was a suite at the end that was empty, the bed inside damaged. The room was probably closed for maintenance, but the reason for its disuse was unimportant. Two days ago, he had jimmied the lock._ _ _ _ _ _

______Making sure nobody was looking, he slipped inside and locked the door behind him. Ignoring the burn in his side, the Soldier opened the window and, despite the speed they were traveling at, pulled himself through the opening so that his feet were braced on the bottom ledge. Reaching his metal hand up, the wound stretching so he felt a rush of hot wetness spill into the bandage, he dug his metal fingers into the siding and pulled himself out of the cabin, onto the roof._ _ _ _ _ _

______For a moment, he had to lie flat on his belly, just catching his breath as the wind tore at his hair and his face. He only allowed himself a minute of respite to slow his heartbeat and push aside the pain. Then he got to his feet and, staying low to the roof, and made his way back along the carriage. Stopping exactly above the suite the handler resided in, he lowered himself carefully to his belly. The position put pressure at his newest wound, but he forced himself to ignore it._ _ _ _ _ _

______Carefully regulating his breathing, he slid sideways enough that his chest was hanging closer to the edge of the window. Pulling out the small tactical mirror the Black Widow had provided with the rest of his gear, he angled the little mirror so he could see inside. The car was shaking, swaying with the speed and the unevenness of the rails, but he still managed to find a position to easily see the suite he’d just left._ _ _ _ _ _

______The Widow and Nomad were standing close together, their bodies angled intimately. Hers was more overt, the upper part of her torso close to him, almost pushing her breasts into his face. Her position combined with the size difference between them allowed the widow to ensure that if her breasts weren’t of interest, then he also had a clear line of sight at her arched ass. One of the two would affect him, that was just statistics._ _ _ _ _ _

______Objectively the Widow was a perfect agent. She was always beautiful, always aware of the situation; quietly effective. Her voice always oscillated in the lower registers, forcing every person in range to subconsciously think of sex. It was a subtle, but perfect, manipulation. Almost too effective, as the Soldier could see all the physical signs of affection in Nomad’s body even as they were clearly arguing._ _ _ _ _ _

______The train was shaking too much and the wind was too sharp for the Soldier to read their lips, but Nomad was gesticulating sharply while the Widow used his agitation to edge closer, slide her body right into his personal space. The handler always kept a large space around himself, something uncomfortable in how he held himself at times. Whenever anybody got too close, he would tense. Now, he let the Widow right inside and it suggested a level of trust that was inadvisable at best. The Widow didn’t have anything like personal space of her own, only levels of manipulation. Her training ensured she was a master. She could use perfectly-mimicked reactions to project vulnerability, youth, innocence, sexual desire. Her whole body was merely a tool. It was her mind that was her weakness._ _ _ _ _ _

______For all that the Widows were trained to manipulate and deceive, to actually be effective they had to possess a high level of empathy as well. It was a concern in the program, long-term psychological prognosis suggesting depression and possible suicide as a result. Judging by the year and her obviously very good condition, the Widow had found a way around her weaknesses._ _ _ _ _ _

______Nomad gesticulated sharply again, hands held carefully away from the Widow. Not wanting to hurt her. It was shocking, seeing that level of care in a handler. It also proved just how compromised Nomad was. He had not hesitated in cutting the Soldier open, but he didn’t want to even touch the Widow in his anger._ _ _ _ _ _

______The argument wound down, the handler slumping as the Widow finally achieved her objective and reached physical contact, gathering the Handler in her arms to offer comfort._ _ _ _ _ _

______If it was true that Nomad didn’t care for sex with women, then the Widow had found a different way to worm herself into his affections. Into his mind, his decision-making process. Men craved so many things it wouldn’t have been hard. They craved sex, companionship, comfort, acknowledgement. There were a hundred and one ways for the Widow to get to them. Nomad had already fallen, it was clear in their interactions when they thought nobody was looking._ _ _ _ _ _

______The Soldier withdrew, pocketing the mirror._ _ _ _ _ _

______The Widow was a threat. If Nomad was supposed to rebuild Hydra, make it better, stronger, than it couldn’t be allowed for the Widow to remain in a position that allowed her opportunities for manipulation. The Soldier would need to wait and watch, verify just how important she was for the mission._ _ _ _ _ _

______He ran down the length of the train car and slid into back through the open window, landing neatly on his feet before pulling the window closed behind him._ _ _ _ _ _

______If the Widow was important to the handler’s mission, the Soldier would find a way to discredit her. If there was no other way, he would play on the handler’s propensity towards the same sex. His body was inadequate, scarred and damaged in many places, but there were ways to get around those problems. If the Widow wasn’t irreplaceable, then he would find a discreet way to get rid of her. He would not allow a mission to be compromised. If that meant protecting the handler from his own weakness, then so be it._ _ _ _ _ _

______He remembered, suddenly, the tight look on the handler's face as he had cut the Soldier open. He didn’t enjoy the punishment at all. Briefly, the Soldier entertained the suspicion that the handler didn’t want to punish him, but that was so far outside of the realm of possibility he soon pushed the thought away._ _ _ _ _ _

______Splashing his wind-flushed face with cold water, he fixed his hair, pulling it back into a neat tail with the hair-bands that Nomad had ordered for him. Once he was sure there was no outward sign of his excursion out of the train car, he entered the hallway again, making his way to the door leading to their suite. He wouldn’t enter, would wait as ordered. Then he would continue his observations and decide how best to deal with the Widow and her influence over Nomad._ _ _ _ _ _


	4. Chapter 4

From the air, the safe house was barely visible, just a lighter patch against a backdrop of lush rainforest green. It was after they landed their tiny helicopter that Steve saw that the shape it melded seamlessly into the trees. It was barely visible at all, even from the ground. Dug deep into the earth, it had few small windows, which meant only parts of the walls were above the ground. With its sprawling roof, covered with moss and leafy plants, it looked like something from a fable rather than an actual building. 

Once they were close enough, and Natasha was wedging the door open, Steve noticed the round structures on both sides of the house: water collectors. It was unlikely there was water being pumped all the way out there, on the least inhabited coasts of Costa Rica. Any electricity would come from a generator on the premises.

Inside the house, it was musty, but clean. The interior was surprisingly big. There were three bedrooms, each with one bed; a small kitchen, fully equipped; a cellar full to bursting with canned food, other non-perishables, and huge power condensators; a common room with a table and two chairs, and a rickety old couch. All the furniture was covered in grey drop cloths. There was only one bathroom with a small toilet and a small shower, but functional enough. All the linens were vacuum packed in clear plastic, and when Steve followed Nat outside, he found her pulling off masking net from what looked like solar panels.

Looking around at the huge old trees surrounding them, and hearing the distant sound of sea waves crashing against the rocky cliff, Steve realised they could live here for months, maybe even years if they hunted in the jungle. All without ever needing to revisit civilization. 

While it was obviously built as a place to lay low for a long time, it was still breathtakingly beautiful. Steve felt something like hope enter him as he watched the lush greenery swaying gently in the sea breeze. They could be safe here, for a while. Long enough that maybe Bucky would be more…Bucky when they left.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Natasha said softly.

Steve sighed.

“You got a special way of bringin’ a guy down,” Steve said slowly. 

“Need to be realistic, Steve, or this whole thing will be the end of you. I already see how it eats at you.”

“This is the least of what I owe him, Nat,” Steve said, still staring at the ocean. “The very least.”

Sighing, Natasha nodded.

“Thought you were gonna say something like that. Come on. It’ll be nice to have a hot, fresh meal.”

\---

Steve entered the small common room of the cottage to a curious sight of the Soldier sitting at their small table, white gauze spread out over it and his right arm, the flesh one, placed gingerly on top. Their almost industrial-sized first aid kit was open beside him as, apparently, the Soldier had had some kind of run in with a tree. Almost the whole length of his forearm was a vicious, jagged wound with bits of bark and wood slivers threaded through the severely shredded skin. Steve suspected it must have been a training accident, since the Soldier had taken to running through the thick forest as other training possibilities had been closed to him.

Steve watched for a long moment as he twisted his arm uncomfortably to get at the back on his own elbow. It looked painful and frankly ineffective. The Soldier’s face betrayed only focus, endless patience, as if he was prepared to spend hours doing something that could have been completed in five minutes by somebody else. Painfully, Steve wondered if Bucky even knew how to ask for help any more.

Or was it only Steve he wouldn’t request it from?

Approaching him, Steve sat on the only other chair in the room and reached into the med kit for one of the sterile little scalpels. Some of those slivers were embedded so deeply they would need to be cut out. Likely the Soldier could do it on his own, but there seemed little point in letting him.

“Give me your arm,” Steve said, reaching for the limb in question.

Closing his hand over Bucky’s wrist, Steve pulled gently towards himself. There was no resistance. There never was when Steve touched the Soldier. Be it a simple touch to the shoulder, or a knife to the chest, the Soldier went easily. Like a child. It always, always, shocked Steve; the smooth submission, the way the Soldier not only followed, but anticipated Steve’s movements and molded himself accordingly to Steve’s needs. In different times, other worlds, it would have been beautiful, even lovely, how closely attuned to Steve he was. 

Now, watching the painfully familiar face, the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes and the full lips that he remembered so vividly, and Steve _hurt_. He hurt for all the things he lost, that _they_ had lost. For things, he was starting to understand, that would never return.

Turning the arm in his grip, feeling the warm, smooth skin under his fingers, he absently stroked his thumb over it. In this position, he had a clear view of the damage and all the debris embedded beneath his skin. The part of him he was burying under his cover wanted to ask if he’d gotten into a fight with a tree. He kept his mouth shut.

Raising the scalpel to start carefully prying the splinters away, Bucky spoke and startled him badly.

“What is my infraction?” 

The question was calm and even, so even it took Steve a moment to actually _understand_ it. Jerking his eyes to the Soldier’s, seeing only vague curiosity and that ever-present submission, his stomach turned. Steve’s chest was painfully tight. Looking back at his hand, his closed his fingers over the flesh wrist that twisted the arm into an unnatural position. His other hand was holding the scalpel, hovering over it so the small blade gleamed slightly in the poor lightning.

Bucky, the Soldier, thought Steve was going to _cut_ him. _Punish_ him. _Hurt_ him.

“There is no infraction,” Steve said, unable to keep his voice completely normal. It was too tight, but there was nothing he could do about it now. “This is expedient. Hold still.”

Bucky, of course, complied. He held perfectly still as Steve lowered the scalpel again, carefully cut only as much and as deep as was necessary. With the tweezers, he pulled the splinters free, dropping them onto the table top. He was methodical, keeping his gaze from Bucky’s face because he couldn’t stand to look. Couldn’t bear to see that calm expectancy again, or pain, or… Steve didn’t know, but he kept his gaze firmly on his hands. On the work. 

When he had removed every piece of wood, he carefully cleaned and wrapped the arm with gauze. Only then did he look up into Bucky’s eyes, the cool grey that was once so warm and welcoming. It hurt not to see love there any more. To have those eyes on him and rarely see any emotion at all, but never anything warm. Anything close to affection. 

“That was… expedient,” the Soldier agreed carefully. 

“Next time,” Steve instructed, “you are allowed to ask for assistance.”

“There are… other matters of more importance.”

“No,” Steve said slowly, “Not really.”

Slowly, as though he thought Steve would hurt him - hell, he probably did - the Soldier turned his arm over so his hand wrapped around Steve’s forearm. It was the first time he had touched Steve without pretending it was accidental. Steve’s heart slammed into overdrive, his pulse pounding beneath his skin, against the Soldier’s palm. There was no chance the man would miss how his touched affected Steve. 

They sat there, for only god knew how long, staring into each other’s eyes. Steve was looking for the lover he’d lost, the friend, a man long dead, because there was nothing. No change in those eyes looking back into his own. It was all Steve could do to keep his breathing even, to keep from showing any more than his pulse gave away. 

The back door swung open, heralding Natasha’s return from the market, and Steve carefully pulled himself free before standing to help her bring in the produce. Whatever had just happened, whatever it meant, Steve didn’t know, but he found he could smile for the first time in ages.

\----

His handler was watching him again. At first he’d expected that his body would be not an optimal choice for swaying this handler's attention from the Widow, but it seemed he was wrong. His eyes tracked from the Soldier’s face, down his chest as he pulled off his completely soaked shirt. The exercise had left him flushed and smelling of sweat and the rainforest he had spent the last hour crashing through at reckless speed. Nomad watched him with dark eyes, focused and attentive, tracing each muscle line with eyes gone dark. It was not the first time he had stared at the Soldier.

In his attempt to undermine the Widow, the Soldier had started telegraphing his movements, reaching for things more slowly, flexing as many muscles as possible when in Nomad’s line of sight. He ate his food more slowly, licking his lips often and pursing them to blow on warm beverages. Repeating until he was certain he had Nomad’s attention. The constant tension in Nomad’s powerful body made the Soldier almost nervous as he tilted his head back to drink water from a cup. His throat was exposed, displaying all the vulnerable places to Nomad’s sight. Not just his neck, but his belly, and the vulnerable naked stretch of skin over his heart. With that kind of tension, and the jittery pressure that Nomad seemed to barely hold inside, violence could erupt at any moment.

Violence, or something else.

Nomad was like no other handler before him, the Soldier was sure of it. Somehow, that fact made him want to push him more. See just where the uncrossable line was. Wanted to push and push without any thought to his own safety. He was here for Nomad to use him, but he wasn’t. It was slowly driving the Soldier insane, making him behave even more erratically. Yet there had been no punishments, no correction. The handler let him do as he pleased.

“All you have to do,” the Soldier said quietly, slanting his eyes to the side to look at Nomad frozen between the tiny bedroom and the common room. His voice was so unused it was raspy and gravelly, near painful, “is order me.”

Nomad’s eyes swept the Soldier’s naked chest again, lingering on the always-painful scarring around the melding of the metal shoulder, and then slipped to the side, catching on the Soldier’s bare nipples, before he reigned himself in and jerked his eyes back to the Soldier’s face. The Soldier licked his lips and felt a shiver of excitement as Nomad unconsciously repeated the gesture, the pink tongue sneaking out to wet his pale pink lips. There should not have been any reaction at all. Damaged, faulty programming.

“You believe I don’t know that?” the handler asked in that careful way he sometimes had.

“I believe your frustration continues and you make use of neither myself or the Widow. Something must change.”

The handler tilted his head, a gesture the Soldier did not know.

“You’re giving orders now?”

Startled, the Soldier went still. Why had he thought it appropriate to use those words? It wasn’t, and the handler knew it. Yet he wasn’t moving, still watching him, waiting. Expecting an answer to something that should have been a rhetorical question.

“Protecting the mission,” the Soldier spoke as carefully as the handler. “Your frustration makes you more likely to make mistakes.”

“Criticizing, now,” the handler said, but his lips twitched in amusement. He should have been angry. He should have demanded punishment. Where was the line? Why was this allowed? Why would the man not use him? “Why do you assume my frustration is physical?”

The Soldier hesitated. That what other reason would there be? Yet the handler was suggesting another, something other than sex.

“It is not?”

The handlers eyes traveled down him and, despite knowing it was too obvious, he flexed. That tongue peeked out again, licking lips before the handler looked back up at his face. There was desire there, but the handler turned away. _Walked_ away.

“If I wanted _you_ , I’d have you.”

The emphasis was slight, but the Soldier heard it. So if it wasn’t him Nomad wanted and it wasn’t the Widow, who else was there? And why did it…bother him that he wasn’t what Nomad wanted?

\----

Nomad and the Widow were fighting. 

At first, their return to French had irritated him. It had been weeks since he had heard it, since America and the train. They took walks, now, when they wanted to get away from him, but that wasn’t as frequent as it had been. The Widow was still using her skills, wrapping herself about the handler, but he had had the Nomad’s attention as often, if not more. 

Then the conversation had turned sharp, pointedly hostile despite the fact that the Soldier did not understand their words. He had stopped pretending he wasn’t paying attention at that point, slipping quietly into the small living room to watch them in the adjoining dining room. They ignored him. 

He watched Nomad, his posture defensive, stand abruptly from his chair. The Widow stood as well, her posture angry and hostile. It made him tense. She was unarmed, but none of them needed weapons to be dangerous. 

The Widow stalked around the table, pushing into the handler’s space. Her slender finger poked into his chest and he abruptly retreated, walking into the kitchen. The Widow followed, so he did as well, stopping at the entrance. They were shouting now, back and forth, gesturing with hands with increasingly sharp gestures. Violence radiated from them both and the Soldier did not understand why the handler allowed this to continue, allowed _her_ to act the way she was. He also did not understand why the Widow was pressing him so hard. Even he could see whatever manipulation, whatever game she was playing was not working.

As abruptly as he began the retreat, Nomad advanced. The Widow held her ground and, though they stopped shouting, the intensity in both did not lessen a fraction. He loomed over her, but was too close, his posture too open. It would take her a heartbeat to deal massive damage. 

It was too much, too long for him to simply watch, and he wanted to _know_ what they were talking about...

The arm recalibrated.

“This isn’t helping!” the Widow shouted, still in French, but he _understood_. “He’s not improving, he’s destabilizing! You have to give up!”

The handler’s lip curled.

“And do what, exactly? What do you think happens then? A trial? Another cage?”

“I don’t know, but it’s better than this!”

“Never,” the handler growled. “You hear me? _Never_. I am not letting him go!”

The Widow’s eyes flashed and she reached for Nomad, small hands grabbing his shirt. In a heartbeat the Soldier was across the room, metal arm locking around her throat and yanking her backward. With a kick, he knocked her to her knees, then dropped to a knee atop her legs. She shouted in pain, but he just pulled back, bending her, taking away her leverage.

Looking up at the handler, he said, “She can be made compliant. If you do not know how, I can provide the correct codes,” he offered, still keeping the Widow in a tight lock, more than aware of how dangerous a fighter she could be.

The handler’s eyes went wide, fear and something the Soldier did not know.

“Get off her,” the handler demanded, voice shaking. When the Soldier did not immediately comply, he repeated the order, shouting the words. The emotional display was even stronger than on the train, when he had struck the Widow. 

“She means you harm,” the Soldier protested. 

“Steve?” the Widow’s voice was tremulous, frightened, pitched perfectly to tug at heartstrings.

The Soldier knew he had lost. 

Standing, he released the Widow and stepped back. Instantly the handler was there, wrapping her in his arms and pulling her close. She curled into him, the picture of wounded female in need of comfort. Without hesitation, Nomad gave it, pulling her head to his throat, an arm around her back. He rocked her gently as her shoulders shook, fake tears likely wetting the handler’s throat.

“It’s okay,” the handler murmured, French again, “Nat, it’s okay. Your mind is your own, no one is going to take it. You won’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

The Soldier stared at them, keeping his face still with effort. It struck him, how unfair this was. That she could have the privacy and safety of her own mind guaranteed, while he had _nothing_.

“We’ll send you home,” the handler promised, “You’ll be safe. Never again, Nat. I promise, never again.”

\----

“I can stay,” Natasha said for what had to be the fifth time that day.

Steve smiled, draping his arm around her shoulders and steering her towards the car they’d acquired to get her wherever she intended to go. Honestly, he appreciated the thought. How he was going to manage the Soldier and his own stability on his own, he hadn’t a clue. Keeping Natasha around, however, wasn’t an option. Not with the Soldier apparently knowing codes that would break her the same way Bucky had been broken. It was the saddest part of seeing him the way he was now, how Hydra took the deepest parts of him and twisted them.

“I’ll be okay,” Steve promised, “so long as nothing happens to you because you were sticking your neck out. Don’t worry.” 

He paused, looking at her and seeing signs of tension in her body. She was offering to stay, even though she was terrified. Bucky, the Winter Soldier, was scaring the shit out of her, and it was just now that Steve realised just why.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently, thinking of the pure terror in her eyes when the Soldier offered to use brainwashing codes on her. He was so sure, so calm about it, there was no doubt in Steve’s mind that the codes would work, “For putting you in this kind of danger.”

“It’s not your fault, Steve. Nothing he does is your fault. Nobody can take that kind of responsibility for another person.”

“Someone has to. Not like he can do it himself.”

Natasha sighed, long and deep and turned around to look up at him. 

“You know, if Bucky was himself, he’d probably tell you not to stick your neck out too far.”

“Yeah,” Steve shrugged, leaning against the jeep’s door, “but he’s not himself and I owe him.”

“You don’t owe anyone your soul, Rogers.”

“No, that I gave him ages ago, right along with my heart.”

Tilting her head to the side, she gave him a perfect look of exasperation.

“No guy is worth all this.”

“Bucky is,” Steve said firmly.

“Uh huh,” Natasha eyed him, “That’s not the whole story. What are you doing penance for?”

Steve chuckled, looking down before meeting her eyes.

“It’s no fair when you can read me like a book, you know.”

He looked at the trees. Their lush green leaves, thick with water and sap, and the sun filtering through them. When they had gotten here, he had thought that this was so beautiful, but he hadn’t seen beauty for a long time now.

“Not supposed to be fair.”

Steve blew out a breath, looking down again.

“I fucked up the best thing I ever had,” he confessed, looking back up at her, “When I signed up for Erskine’s experiment, he’d already shipped out. I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell him even after it worked. Then I ran off, half-cocked, past enemy lines and…”

“And he found out the hard way.”

“Yep,” Steve popped the ‘p’. “Never quite forgave me for that, or for hiding what I’d let them do to me. Never talked about it either, not that there was time. We were in the middle of a fucking war zone,” Steve ran a hand through his hair, “and I always thought we’d have time…later.”

“And then there was Peggy,” Natasha said.

Steve frowned, giving her a confused look.

“You know I never had a thing for Peggy.”

“Yeah,” she smiled at him that knowing smirk, “but I’ve seen the clips. You looked like it.”

Pushing both hands through his hair, Steve felt like she had hit him with a stun gun. That one sentence explained so much. Explained two years of passive-aggressive bullshit, that look in Bucky’s eyes, the desperation. Bucky had thought Steve had cheated on him and he’d died thinking it, too.

“Jesus,” Steve blurted.

“You didn’t know?” Natasha asked with no little surprise.

“I told you,” Steve ran a hand over his face, “We were fighting for nearly two years. Never had time to talk. When we had time we… Well, there wasn’t any _talking_ involved.”

Natasha laughed.

“Of course not.” Her gaze softened and she put her hand on his arm. “It’s the past, Steve. He doesn’t even remember it.”

“But I do,” Steve threw back. “Remember it like it was yesterday. All the shit I gave him - Tash, he was the best thing that ever happened to me. Put up with all my shit, more than his fair share. Pulled me up by my bootstraps more than once, went out of his way to make me smile, and you know how I repaid that? I got in fights I picked because I had to prove to the world I wasn’t just some sick kid that was gonna die and leave nothin’ behind. No, instead I became the sick kid that turned into Captain America and got his best guy killed. I _owe_ him, Nat. So much, and not just ‘cause of how bad I fucked it all up. He was all I had after my mom died, and his family was always pushing for him to find a nice girl, someone _worthy_ of Bucky Barnes, and he stuck to me. I wasn’t worth it.”

“Steve…”

“Don’t,” Steve said softly, but made his voice hard, “I’m not. Not after the things I’ve done, but he is, and he deserves better. I’ll do anything to make things right again.”

“He won’t forgive you if it destroys you in the process.”

“He’s not gonna forgive me for a lot of things,” Steve said.

Natasha looked away, then nodded. Standing on her toes, she hugged Steve tight and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I’ll call you when I can,” she promised. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Okay,” Steve promised. 

It was the first time he’d ever made one when he didn’t think he could keep it.


	5. Chapter 5

Taking a breath, the Soldier sat up. He was not where he remembered last being. He was in the nearby village, sitting outside the shop. This was…not expected. Where were the memories of how he had gotten here? He knew he was malfunctioning, but this was more than unusual. He could not recall losing time before.

Getting up, he began to walk back to the house. The handler would have noticed his absence, perhaps had come after him. Surely there would be punishment for this, even if there had not been so many times before. Oddly, his only thought was whether it would be worse this time, or easier. Since making the handler believe he was susceptible to the white protocols, he had been even gentler, even more careful with the Soldier’s body. It was yet to be seen how that would translate to punishment.

When he walked up the road, he saw the handler sooner than he expected, the man pacing back and forth before the house. He didn’t notice him, so the Soldier purposely scuffed his feet over the gravel drive. Immediately the handler’s head snapped up, looking at him, but the Soldier was too far away to identify the emotions that flitted over his face. 

Stopping, arms crossed over his chest, the handler waited for him.

“Where have you been?” he demanded when the Soldier was a few feet from the door.

The Soldier hesitated, his steps pausing before he forced himself to continue, to walk past the handler into the house. Heart beating abnormally quickly, he went to the sink, grabbed a glass, and poured himself some water. The handler followed.

“I asked you a question, Soldier,” the handler barked.

That he knew. The answer, on the other hand, was another question. The Soldier didn’t know where he had been, except the village. How long had he been missing? Long enough that the handler had noticed he was gone, so more than thirty minutes. An hour? Two? Three? He didn’t dare ask. Couldn’t risk admitting he had lost time, that his programming was splintering. That he was malfunctioning. What use would he be to the handler then?

The Soldier drank his water. 

“I am asking for the last time, Soldier. Where were you?”

The Soldier kept quiet, not answering the question. Saying ‘the village’ would be unacceptable; it did not explain what he was doing. Not to mention, ‘I don’t remember’ could not be considered a proper response. Though, the way his handler acted was so unlike anything the Soldier expected, so strange and strangely appealing. It was so hard to know his boundaries with this man, it made him feel unsteady, jittery, _volatile_.

Setting the glass down, he turned to face his handler. Staring at his hard face, blue eyes shadowed by things the Soldier couldn’t understand, he realised he wouldn’t answer even if he could. All the times had Nomad touched him, as if he were so fragile, as if he deserved comfort, made him feel unsteady, out of place and uncomfortable in his own skin. He couldn't stand it, couldn’t reconcile the way Nomad behaved with all the protocols for correct behaviors that were embedded so deeply inside him. The difference…the difference was unsettling him. Was terrifying him and he couldn’t remember feeling fear.

The handler’s eyes dropped to the knife holstered at the Soldier’s hip and jerked away. As if he couldn't stand the sight of it.

“I will have to punish you, if you don’t answer,” Nomad said coldly.

The soldier said nothing, looking straight at his handler. He was strangely eager to actually be punished. Finally, he would see that his handler was just like any other. The Soldier needed proof that this was his handler, that Nomad had been telling the truth the entire time, that he was truly Hydra. All the strange thoughts the Soldier had had would be proven to be caused by his faulty programming, the irregular procedure he was subjected to, and not any actual difference in Nomad. Because if he wasn’t a handler, he was a target and the Soldier didn’t want that. He would prefer punishment.

“I can’t have you refusing my orders.”

The Soldier said nothing.

Nomad’s muscles tensed, giving the impression of imminent violence, before he became abruptly cold and unmovable. There was a darkness in his eyes now. That same darkness that had been growing steadily since the Soldier met him. He reached for his belt and unbuckled it, pulling the wide leather strap from the pant loops.

“Take off your shirt,” Nomad said roughly, “Turn away from me, hands on the table.”

The Soldier followed the instructions, already suspecting what was to come. Once he was bare-chested, he braced his hands on the table and lowered his head to let his hair fall forward, obscuring his face from Nomad’s sight, though he couldn’t see the Soldier with his back turned. 

“Twenty lashes,” the handler informed him, voice hard. The Soldier exhaled carefully, regulating his heartbeat, preparing for what was to come. “Don’t turn around until I tell you.”

The Soldier frowned at the strange order and even stranger note in his voice. He didn’t have time to consider it for long before there was a whistle in the air and a line of fire bloomed over his back. The knife had looked bad, but it healed quickly and easily. The belt was worse. It rarely cut the skin, but the heavy leather crushed the muscle and blood vessels beneath. The extremely deep bruising would take much longer to heal.

By the fifth blow, the Soldier was sweating and clenching his teeth against the pain. His whole back screamed in agony as the belt whistled through the air over and over. The strikes came harder, faster, and with the kind of strength few people were capable of. He could hear Nomad’s heavy, strained breathing between the blows. A thought flitted through his mind that Nomad was enjoying the punishment this time. He didn’t like the knife, or the blood, but this time something obviously affected him. 

On blow fifteen, he let out an involuntary bark of pain. Nomad had been hitting the same places over and over so many times, he couldn’t stop it. It was a mistake. The next blow didn’t come. Likely the handler was determining a different punishment. That was what they did, found his weakness and made it worse. 

The Soldier stilled, waiting, minding his order not to turn around, and slowed his breathing, forced the shallow, harsh rasps away. The pain, now that Nomad had stopped hitting him, was fierce, but controllable. The Soldier heard nothing, the handler not moving from where he stood. The seconds ticked by into minutes and still there was nothing. Then Nomad moved, coming closer, and placed his hand shockingly gently against the base of the Soldier’s skull.

“Tell me,” the handler said, but there was something wrong. It wasn’t an order, it was… pleading. “Tell me where you were and this ends.”

He shouldn’t look. He should keep himself turned as he had been ordered. But he twisted his neck to see the handler and didn’t understand what he saw there. Pain, not arousal or exertion. The handler wasn’t even sweating, but his breathing sounded elevated, excited. But no…pain. It didn’t make sense. A handler enjoyed hurting him, maybe got off on it. At best, they felt nothing. Never this. And if Nomad wasn’t his handler...

“Just tell me. Follow orders; it’s what you’re best at. _Tell_ me.”

But the Soldier had already decided, and he never changed the chosen path. He lowered his head, hanging it low, saying nothing, only offering the wreckage of his back to the handler. If the punishment stopped now, the Soldier knew Nomad was not his handler, not truly.

Nomad cursed. The hand, heavy and warm, left and the pain was incompatibly worse because Nomad’s strange behavior kept throwing him out of the calm, blank state of mind he needed to suffer the punishments, to accept the pain as his due, as part of him, as the _reason_ of him. 

The handler’s footsteps walked away from him. For a moment he wondered if they would keep going, but they stopped, exactly as far away as before. The seconds passed again in silence and then, without any more warning than the swish of leather parting air, the sixteenth blow hit his back. Pain blossomed anew, and he realized he was shaking. Seventeen, and he pressed his fingers tighter to the table, sweat sliding down his nose and dripping off. Eighteen, and he made the same sound that had stopped the handler the first time. Before nineteen, the handler cursed him and again with twenty, as the skin broke and the sound of the belt hitting skin wet with blood pierced the air.

Silence settled again. The Soldier was breathing heavy but steady, as was the handler behind him. There was no order to turn, so he didn’t, but he again slowed his breathing, forced his body to accept the pain as part of him. That it was nothing, that he could ignore it. He could. He _would_. 

He didn’t hear the handler approach, but his hand was again at the base of his skull. Warm, gentle, contrasting with the fire that was his back. The Soldier tensed. If he asked again and the Soldier had to refuse him again, they would start this over. They would do this over and over until the handler broke him and he confessed, or they put him in the chair and he confessed. It had happened before.

The handler’s right hand, the hand not on the Soldier’s neck, covered the flesh hand and pulled it from the table. Assuming the intention was to slam him onto the table, he removed the metal hand as well and would have fallen forward on his own if the handler hadn’t ducked beneath his arm, pulling it around his shoulders. The hand on his neck dropped to the waistband of his pants, holding him up.

“Bed,” the handler said. 

It took a moment for the Soldier to understand the meaning, and he let out a breath. So the handler _had_ been affected as expected. Aroused by the punishment, he now wanted to use him. That was good, that was part of the objective in keeping the Widow away, but he couldn’t stop the thought that if future physical encounters required punishment beforehand, he was not certain he could meet his objectives.

“Do you have preferences?” the Soldier asked.

The handler took one more step after his question before stopping suddenly. Ducking his head, the handler met his eyes which were too wide, too wild, still…pained. Though he looked for it, the Soldier couldn’t see the arousal he knew was there.

They confused him again, the handlers reactions. Why couldn’t he act like he _should_?

“What?” the handler asked.

“Do you have any preferences for how you want me?”

As if the Solder were the one not making sense, the handler frowned.

“Lying down,” he said shortly and started them moving again.

In the bedroom that had been designated for his use, the handler helped him to lie down on the bed on his stomach. Keeping his breathing even the Soldier let the handler move him, arrange his body how he liked. The pants were pulled off, but not the underwear beneath, and that was counterproductive to what the handler wanted. Wasn’t it?

The handler’s fingers brushed through his hair, arranging it into a neat cascade over his cheek. It was not the first time a handler had touched him like that before sex, nor was it the first time _this_ handler had touched him without cause. It lasted only a few moments, but the Soldier again felt odd when touch was withdrawn. He had to admit his programming was failing. He _wanted_. He wanted Nomad to touch him again, but that would happen soon enough. 

Except the handler didn’t pull off his clothes. He stood, yes, but walked back out of the room. When he returned, it wasn’t with lube, but with a bowl full of ice and several towels. The Soldier didn’t know what they would be used for, but he did not care much so long as the handler touched him again.

He did, but it was again unorthodox. Wrapping the ice in the towels, the handler carefully laid them out over the bruised, wrecked flesh of his back. The ache subsided slowly, though not completely. He couldn’t ignore it like he should, either. Not with the handler acting this way, not with his programming failing, not with this unacceptable _want_.

The handler finished and pulled back as though to stand. The flesh hand reached out and the Soldier did not want it to, but it wrapped around the handler’s wrist. Immediately he stilled, looking back down at him. 

“If you do not want me,” the Soldier said, voice harsh and rough, “If you find me unacceptable…”

The hand attached to the wrist he was holding twisted, slid into his own and linked their fingers together. 

“You are more than acceptable,” the handler assured, and that was yet another thing handlers did not do.

“I am defective. Require -”

“No,” the handler interrupted sharply. “Enough. You _require_ rest.” He took a sharp breath through his nose. “Or are you disobeying orders again?”

Tightening his hand, the Soldier closed his eyes.

“No. I will comply.”

The handler pulled free and again touched his hair. To his surprise, the Soldier found rest close at hand.

\----

With the Soldier asleep, Steve fled the room. He fled the _house_ , stumbling down towards the cliffs and the path that lead to the tide pools below. Breathing hard, the air rasping in his lungs, he didn’t take as much care as he should on the uneven path. Bare feet cut on the rocks. He slipped and fell, hands and arms slicing on the cold, sharp, wave shaped stone. Steve didn’t care. The pain was his due, his penalty for what he had done to Bucky. 

Pushing himself to his feet, he got up and kept running. The swish of his belt, the crack against Bucky’s skin, the first cries he had ever heard the Soldier make, and all at his hands. Over and over the sounds echoed in his ears. The submission, utter, complete submission Bucky offered him at all times, and he had done _that_. He’d had to, he knew he had to, but it didn’t change what he was becoming. 

Steve ran until his stomach clenched, stumbling down the cliff face and he fell again. Leaning over the stone, his stomach heaved, throwing up what he had eaten that morning. Yet when there was nothing left, it didn’t stop. The muscles in his stomach rebelled, contracting over and over, purging _everything_ , even when there was nothing. He retched until something broke, and he was spitting out blood with the bile. It went on and on and on as the memory of the beating he’d inflicted on Bucky’s compliant, docile body replayed with each contraction, each swish of leather, as his body punished _him_ for what he’d done.

It wasn’t nearly what he deserved.

\----

The Widow had been gone for a week and Nomad’s frustration had mounted. He attempted to release the tension by running, climbing the cliff near their home, but there was a limited selection of activities. Sometimes he would sit by the windows and sketch, staring for hours outside, though the Soldier surmised the scenery was not what he was seeing. Occasionally he would disappear for long periods of time, but when he returned the tension was worse, not better.

Something had to be done and the Soldier knew what _he_ wanted it to be. No matter how hard he tried to catch Nomad’s eye, however, the man always walked away. The Soldier was not what he wanted, even if he found him obviously attractive. With his programming damaged, the Soldier wanted Nomad. Nomad was a big man, bigger even than the Soldier. Everything about him screamed military. It was something in his posture, the way he stood. His muscles were broad, well defined under his smooth skin in a show of power that always caught the Soldier’s attention. Maybe he was worthy of following, maybe he would be the one the Soldier could work with from now on. He just had to make Nomad act on that attraction.

After one of the times Nomad disappeared, the Soldier met him in the hallway without a shirt. Nomad’s eyes swept down his chest, beaded with water from the shower he’d taken just for this purpose. He stepped closer, slowly, not wanting the handler to mistake his proximity for anything dangerous. When they were only a few inches away, he stopped, looking up at the handler from beneath his lashes.

“There are protocols,” the Soldier said, watching Steve carefully.

There was something dark and terrible in Nomad’s eyes.

“What protocols?”

The Soldier shifted his stance, making sure his combat pants went tight on his thighs, stretched over his groin and ass.

“For sex.”

His handler raised his brows, but there was something inviting in his body language. Interest, more than usual. 

“White Protocols.”

“Why would there be special protocols for having sex with you?” Nomad demanded and damn, but this handler was sharp. He had immediately cottoned on to what the Soldier wasn't saying.

The Soldier brushed the tips of his fingers over the handles of his knives.

“To make sure one survives the experience.”

Nomad watched him for a very long time, his eyes dark and unreadable. There was a kind of bleakness to him since the Widow had left, and the Soldier didn’t like it at all. Nomad licked his lips and the Soldier thought that was it, that the handler would back out as always.

“I want to engage the White Protocols.”

The words were a shock, enough of one that he jerked his head to look his handler in the eye without the coy attempt at seduction. The blue gaze was wide, almost desperate. Yet, he didn’t move, just watched the Soldier. Waiting, he realized, for him to proceed. 

His handler was a big man but surprisingly light on his feet. His arms were power incarnate, the breadth and strength of them stunning. The Soldier watched the flex of those muscles as the man shifted minutely, how they stretched the grey t-shirt he wore. His pecs strained at the thin cotton hard enough that the Soldier could even see the press of nipples, small and tight, against the material. He dropped his eyes along the hard biceps, then lower to the corded forearms. The handler had long fingers and was good with a pencil, but the Soldier wondered about his strength, about the bodies the handler had left behind in that base. The palms themselves were wider than the Soldier’s own. Nomad’s chest tapered off to impossibly slim hips and long legs corded with muscle. However he looked at it, Nomad was impressive, so much more impressive than anything the Soldier remembered. 

There was something unique about Nomad, a secret that the Soldier wanted to learn.

Reaching forward, the Soldier took the handler’s hand and led him to the bedroom. The handler went, as docile as though their positions were reversed. Quietly, watching as though he expected the Soldier to be in control of the situation. It left the Soldier feeling odd, strangely unsettled as if he was nervous. Being nervous wasn’t feasible, but as always Nomad made him feel strange. 

Carefully, the Soldier disarmed himself, pulling out every knife he had hidden on his person, the gun, and the small garrote wire. Then he reached for his belt and the handler was there, arms wrapping about his waist so his hands could hold his wrists. The Soldier went still, feeling the powerful body behind him, his breath abruptly unsteady. 

The _handlers_ breath was against his neck as he said, “Just take off your shoes and lie down.”

Swallowing, another gesture that suggested the impossibility of nervousness, the Soldier did as he was instructed. Pulling off his boots, he left the shelter of Nomad’s arms and lay on the bed. Then he watched, eagerly enjoying the sight as Nomad removed his shirt, toed off his own shoes before turning to face him.

“Roll over,” the handler ordered, “on your side.”

Without hesitation, the Soldier complied. Behind him, the mattress dipped and the light was flicked off. That was a disappointment; the Soldier wanted to see all those impressive muscles as Nomad moved inside him. Except, Nomad didn’t remove the rest of his clothing. He lay down behind him, slipped an arm under his shoulders and pulled him back. The other arm wrapped around his waist, holding him close. The Soldier’s hair ruffled as the handler breathed out a sigh, nose brushing against his hairline. The arms tightened, warm and oddly protective. Just holding, not grabbing or groping, just…holding.

“Sleep,” Nomad murmured next to his ear. “That’s an order.”

“Understood,” the Soldier acknowledged, but he didn’t understand the order. 

The handler was hard, he was sure he could feel the swollen flesh through the layers of clothing separating them, the point of heat between their bodies. But the handler was doing nothing to relieve that particular tension. He didn’t push against the Soldier, didn’t try to get at his ass, or his mouth. He wasn’t even touching him anywhere remotely sexual, simply holding on to him as if he needed it.

The soldier didn’t remember anything like this ever happening, but then again, he didn’t remember much. Still, the closeness felt strange, not quite, but almost disturbing. The contact felt good, though. There were very few situations where the Soldier could enjoy human contact, and most of them had revolved around punishments. This… This was so far outside of anything he’d ever known; there were no protocols for him to refer to. 

But he liked it.

What he achieved wasn’t exactly sleep, more like a resting state that was his version of sleep. Even that was difficult to achieve with that big body wrapped around him. Confused and lost, the Soldier lay there until dawn, feeling hyper-aware of the heavy arms around him, and the big, warm body behind him.

\----

“There’s a waterfall near the cabin you’d like to see.”

Steve stilled, head bent over his latest sketch of the ocean. Deciding he hadn’t imagined the voice, he lifted his head to find the Soldier watching him. He hadn’t dressed at all, not since they had woken that morning, as if reminding Steve of the line he had crossed. The advantage he had taken of a man who couldn’t tell him no. 

“Sorry?” Steve said, not understanding what the Soldier meant. Was there some kind of security problem? With…a waterfall?

The Soldier looked down.

“When I was training yesterday,” he said, “I stumbled across it. It’s about a mile northwest. You draw the water so often, I thought… “ The tone changed, growing harder, distant. “Speculation was inappropriate. Does Nomad desire to to enact behavioral modification?”

“No,” Steve said too quickly, sitting forward. “Tell me about the waterfall.”

The Soldier’s eyes snapped up to him, watching, assessing, before his shoulders lowered. Relaxing. 

“I could show you.”

The tone was easy again, so much like Bucky’s that Steve’s heart was lodged in his throat. It was such a sudden, shocking change. Steve wasn’t sure what had caused it, but he wanted to make sure he encouraged it. After all, it was the first sign he had had that Bucky might still be in there.

“I’d like that.”

\---

Steve stood in the doorway to the Soldier’s bedroom watching him disrobe for bed. The Soldier never closed any doors, not unless Steve ordered it. It was as if he had no sense of self awareness, of being a person at all.

There were so many things he had fucked up since finding Hydra wasn’t as dead as they’d thought. So many things he had done, compromising himself, his values, everything he thought he knew about himself. Those things he’d believed to be immovable parts of himself proved to be just another line waiting to be crossed. And he’d crossed them so easily when it came to this ghost of the Bucky he knew. 

He missed Bucky so much, missed his scent, his voice, his presence. Steve had chased the Winter Soldier halfway across the world thinking he would get his lover and best friend back. Instead he got this man, obedient but erratic, as capable of perfect submission as he was of suddenly killing Steve in a fit of madness. 

Yet….

Yet Steve couldn’t stay away. Couldn’t send the Soldier away like Natasha had advised was best. Steve’s dreams were haunted by nightmares of the past, of Bucky falling, but also of this man with Bucky's face, sitting in that cursed chair and saying in a dead, almost robotic voice, “Ready to comply.”.

There were things Steve had done since, so many things that he’d regretted, that he couldn’t forgive or forget. The worst part was he had done it on his own; nobody had forced his hand. The only one to blame was himself and his unquenchable need for Bucky, for some _peace_. Because that was what Bucky had always been to him. In the middle of War, through poverty and misery, Bucky was the one to offer respite. To shut the world away and let Steve rest.

The Soldier was taking off his shirt, the metal arm moving as fluidly as his flesh one. The metal plates shifted smoothly to accommodate for the changes in position, making quiet sounds of well-crafted machinery that reminded him of Tony, more than Bucky. The Soldier’s back was heavy with muscle, packed in a way that was so different than Steve remembered. It was all deliberate, brutal power where Bucky had been lithe grace and speed.

The Soldier had to be aware of him watching, but he never faltered. Stripping off his boots and his combat pants, he unselfconsciously exposed more of his powerful body. There were few scars aside from the shoulder, but Steve didn’t believe it was because he’d avoided injury. Considering there was no evidence of the the two knife wounds Steve had inflicted, the lack of other scarring simply meant his healing factor took care of any evidence. It wasn’t surprising, Steve’s was the same.

In that same efficient, unselfconscious manner, the Soldier shucked off his underwear. Long hair fell forward to hide his face as he bent down to pick it up and fold it on top of the already neatly folded pile of clothes. Instead of getting into bed as Steve expected him to, the Soldier froze, the long, naked line of his back towards Steve.

Turning his head enough that Steve could see the side of his stubbled jaw, he looked back. Steve could see how his back tensed with the movement, muscles standing out sharply under the surprisingly soft skin and the line of his spine deepening. Steve’s mouth went dry.

“Do you wish to engage the White Protocols?”

The Soldier’s voice was always quiet, neutral, qualities Bucky’s had never possessed. They reminded Steve that he should say no. He had already fallen so deep into this rabbit hole, he would never forgive himself. But it was so hard, so hard to decline. He was weak and tired and so damned lonely. Every day was a reminder of what he had lost, of the love he’d had for a few short years which had been stolen from him. Bucky was so close, and yet an ocean away. Gone, but still present, impossible to mourn, but _missing_ , lost, vanished into the shell that was his body.

Steve swallowed, his throat dry and tight.

“Yes,”

Shifting, easing his weight with the sole purpose of turning towards him, Steve had a moment of panic. He had to stop that movement, because he knew with complete clarity, that if he saw Bucky’s body naked and receptive at this moment he would lose his mind. He couldn’t even see the Soldier’s face. Not if he wanted to stay even somewhat sane.

“Lie down on your stomach,” Steve said roughly. 

The Soldier didn't hesitate. He pulled the covers off his bed and lay down in the middle, his face turned away as if he understood more from Steve’s voice than he was comfortable with. Both the Soldier and Natasha were equally disturbing in that respect. They had such skill at reading human bodies like a piece of paper filled with bold text, emotions, and intent from body language with such speed that was disturbing. Yet they were both unaware of their own emotions. 

Dolls that could see too much and mimic people, but weren’t. 

With the twisted thought in his head, Steve approached the bed and climbed in. He was only in his sleep pants and already barefoot. Crawling along the naked stretch of the Soldier’s body, he carefully held himself up and just looked for a moment trying to see... He didn't know what. Bucky? Something familiar in that cold face hidden by all that hair? An emotion? Just… _something_ that said the Soldier was a person.

All he saw was a shell.

Steve stared at the long, muscular back, the rise of his ass, and the strong thighs all stretched out under him. Hair was covering the Soldier’s face, but Steve could _smell_ him, feel him, and god, but he felt like Bucky. Smelled like him. Wasn’t him, but it was so close to the real thing, all Steve had left of the man he’d loved with his entire being.

Slowly, Steve pressed his whole body along the naked one, fitting himself along the warm length of the Soldier, and shuddered with how _good_ it felt. He missed Bucky so much, missed him every day, every night, every hour. After DC Steve had thought the longing couldn’t be worse, that it couldn’t _get_ worse.

He had been so wrong. So damned wrong. 

Ever since Steve had pulled the Soldier out of that chair, escaped that Hydra base, every day had been worse. Steve was losing himself, losing Bucky over and over and there was nothing left to remind him of who he was, not since Natasha had left. And his lover's body was so close, close enough he could touch it freely, but there wasn't even a trace of Bucky in it. 

Pressing his face into the back of the Soldier’s neck, Steve felt how warm he was for a dead man. How smooth the skin was. He breathed, just breathed. Beneath him, the Soldier shifted, rolling his hips backwards into his pelvis. Steve’s hand flew to lock on the naked hip, holding in tight enough to bruise.

“No,” Steve said, his voice raspy and wrecked, “Don’t move.”

Steve closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to that warm back, letting the scent of Bucky surround him. He fumbled for the turned-down sheet and pulled it over them both, enclosing them in a small, intimate space. There, feeling the warm skin pressed all along his chest and the warmth that was rapidly building between them was almost like having Bucky back. There would be hell to pay for this later, but for now he grabbed onto the imitation of peace this closeness afforded him and held on.

“Sleep like this,” Steve whispered, closing his eyes again.

The Soldier was still for a moment until Steve could feel him take a deep breath. The chest under his own expanded and then exhaled slowly, the body relaxing. Steve was grateful at that moment for all of the Soldier’s enhancement because it meant he could easily hold Steve’s weight. Like he was still small and they were home in Brooklyn, back before the War. Before everything had come apart so spectacularly. Before they’d fallen so far from who they had been.

Steve rubbed his cheek over the warm skin and exhaled too, letting himself fall again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now there is art inspired by the scene of Winter Soldier showing Steve the waterfal. Show the sweet artist some love for the wonderful art!

The Waterfall.


	7. Chapter 7

The Soldier stepped out of the shower and the Nomad was standing in the doorway, his eyes dark and focused on the Soldier. He didn’t let himself pause, didn’t let himself betray anything in face or in body. He locked his eyes with the handler for just a moment before lowering his gaze, tilting his head a little to the side, subtly projecting submission, and reached for the towel rack.

The handler watched his every move, face dark and unreadable, intense focus directed solely at him. That was good, that was what he had hoped would happen when he left the door open during his shower. Grabbing the towel, he ran it roughly over his hair. To his pleasure, Nomad’s eyes flicked down his naked body, leisurely. Slowly. Enjoying the view and it made the Soldier’s body heat up, a rush of something heady and giddy running through him.

“Engaging the White Protocols?” the Soldier asked.

“Yes,” the handler answered.

Pushing off the doorway, he walked closer to the Soldier, making it oddly hard to breathe. A hand pressed against his chest, pushing him back against the wall. He went, thinking _this_ time, Nomad must want him. Would do what they both wanted him to do. 

It had been days since the Soldier had suggested the White Protocols. _Days_ , and the handler still hadn’t come back for more. The touching continued, but nothing more, nothing like the skin to skin contact of that night in the handler’s bed. The Soldier wanted more, had done everything he could to entice his handler. It had apparently worked.

The handler’s wide palm slid over his neck, along his shoulder, all heat and rough skin. The Soldier stared into his eyes, the darkness there not just lust, or desire. His breathing was fast, and the Soldier found his own matched, rough and uneven. Unsteady. Like they had been running, or fighting, not just standing in a bathroom.

Traveling back up his shoulder, up his neck, the hand stopped along his jaw, the thumb brushing his lips. They parted without conscious thought, following physical cues and the handler’s eyes darkened. All lust this time, all desire. It wasn’t a surprise when he leaned in, pressing his lips carefully to the Soldier’s. As if the Soldier could refuse, say no, pull away. Maybe he could; he didn’t want to.

Faulty. Damaged. In need of recalibration.

Closing his eyes, the Soldier pressed into the kiss. The Nomad’s sharp inhale made him shiver, as did the touch of the hand on his left hip. There was too much clothing between them, but the hands on him, their lips, it was so intense, _so much_. More than he had expected, and he whimpered. It was not a sound he should make.

The hand on his hip tightened, more pressure on his lips. Approval of the noise he had made, the noise that had happened only because he was no longer functioning properly. He should tell the handler, stop this, but he wanted it, wanted to be touched, to be used, to have the handler want _him_.

And he did. He kissed the Soldier slowly, held him tightly. The Soldier lifted his hand, not sure what he intended, perhaps to touch himself. Then the handler was pulling away, breathing so hard, flushed and wanting so clearly. Yet he turned away, walked away. Like every other time, the Soldier was found lacking.

For a long moment, he stared after the handler. Who was it that the handler wanted? Someone he had abandoned at S.H.I.E.L.D.?

Noise in the kitchen suggested the handler was making food. Pulling on his combat pants, he followed, though normally he would have done a patrol of the grounds at this time. Something drew him to the handler instead, made him watch him lean over the sink with the water flowing. His head was bowed, tension all through his back and shoulders. Frustration levels far higher than when he’d stood in the bathroom doorway.

“The Widow called you Steve,” the Soldier said, though he _knew_ he shouldn’t. Should stay quiet, go on patrol. “Would it be permissible for…”

The handler turned around, staring at him and no, what was he doing? Of course it was not permissible. Any liberties the Widow had taken were not allowed him. Should never have been allowed the Widow. There would be punishment. It was the only possible outcome.

The handler’s eyes were wide, wide and vulnerable for a briefest of moments before his face shuttered, erasing all emotion, leaving only the careful mask behind.

“What are you asking?” the handler demanded.

Walking to the counter, the Soldier drew a knife, set it on the counter and pushed it toward the handler.

“To use your name. It is unacceptable. I think -”

“Do you want to use my name?” the handler interrupted.

“Want is not permissible.”

With his fingertips, he pushed the knife closer to the handler. In a sudden burst of violence, the handler grabbed it and threw it across the room, embedding the blade to the hilt in the stucco. The Soldier’s eyes followed it, surprised enough he knew the emotion would show on his face. Another infraction, one he now thought the handler would not punish.

Where was the line?

“I would like it if you called me Steve,” the handler - Steve - said slowly, his voice so low and unsteady it hardly sounded like him at all.

“Okay,” the Soldier felt dizzy, “Steve.”

Half-expecting this to be a trap, the Soldier was surprised to watch the frustration, the _tension_ , drain right out of the handler - out of Steve. It really hadn’t been lack of sexual pleasure causing that frisson. It was… What? Companionship? Is that what the Widow had given… Steve? Is that why he allowed so much, blurred the line until there was hardly any between handler and soldier?

For the first time, as Steve turned away and began cooking a meal for them both, the Soldier thought he should not have gotten the Widow sent away.

\---

Nomad came to him every night, never for more than bodies pressed together in sleep. Slowly, the amount of clothing they were both wearing had lessened until they were naked. It made no sense. There was sexual desire there, his handler’s cock heavy, and blood hot against the Soldier, but the handler never did anything about it. He just touched, pressed their bodies together and went to sleep.

In the morning, he was always too quiet, distant, the tension in him filling the entire house until every step felt like it would make him explode. The only thing, the Soldier discovered, that made him relax again was stopping his routines, his patterns, to talk. Nothing particular, like that day he had brought up the waterfall. He would speak of birds he had seen, or a change he thought to make to his training. Nomad rarely spoke, but sometimes he’d smile, just the slightest upturn of his lips, never as he had smiled for the Widow. It was enough encouragement that the Soldier continued. This was not part of his training, but more than the nights it relaxed Nomad.

Nomad, not Steve. Even though he had permission, he couldn’t call him anything else. Not even handler. The desire was there, in them both, but something deep inside him told him it was wrong. Dangerous. It was instinct and the Soldier always listened to his instincts.

Tonight was the first night Nomad had allowed him on his back, first time he didn’t go out of his way to avoid looking at the Soldier’s face. He had left for hours, a walk longer than any he had ever taken, and no conversation had brought him from the darkness that lingered over his shoulders like a cloud. When the Soldier had retreated to bed, Nomad had followed, engaging the White Protocols without the usual prompting from the Soldier.

Now Nomad was mouthing at his neck, lips wet but cold, dragging them over and over the stretched tendons of the Soldier’s throat. He was hot, so hot, the blankets pulled around them the way Nomad always had them despite the heat of this place. There was hardness pressed against his hip and his own body was reacting strongly, heart pounding, breathing ragged. Heat pooled between his legs, making his own hardness press into Nomad’s stomach.

“Say my name,” Nomad said roughly, lips still pressed against the Soldier’s skin.

There was something dark, something broken in Nomad’s voice. The request, as simple as it was, sounded strangely important.

“Steven,” he said obediently.

Immediately, he knew he had done it wrong. Tension lanced through Nomad's body. His hands clenched on the Soldier’s sides, fingers dug in briefly. Distracting the Soldier from his orders. God, the strength of him. It stunned and excited the Soldier beyond reason.

“No,” Nomad rasped, dragging his lips over the Soldier’s cheek to hover at his lips. “Steve. Say, _Steve_.”

The Soldier licked his lips, suddenly _unwilling_ to do so. As if there was some deeper programming, rebelling at the order. He licked his lips, his tongue brushing Nomad’s as they were so close. He could hear Nomad breathing, rough and shallow; smell the scent of his skin, the soap and a faint hint of sweat on him. Familiar now.

Swallowing hard, he did what he always did. He followed orders.

“Steve.”

Nomad made a terrible, shuddering sound and leaned down to kiss the Soldier fiercely, possessively. Harder, deeper than he had before. His tongue dipped past the Soldier’s lips, tasting and he shuddered, unable to stop his hands from lifting to grab at Nomad’s shoulders. The touch drew another sound from Nomad, deeper, like something was breaking in his chest. He held on, felt like he might be holding Steve together and was rewarded by hands sliding down his throat, his chest, and wrapping about his waist. Steve’s knees pushed his apart as he settled between his legs.

“Steve,” the Soldier gasped again as those hands slid down his thighs, pulling them up and around the trim waist. Bearing down, Steve ground their hips together, trapping their erections between their bodies. The pleasure was shockingly intense, the friction eased by the excessive pre-come they were both leaking.

It was like something broke in the man.

Nomad braced himself above the Soldier, pressing sloppy, wet kisses to his face, his cheek, his lips. Licking inside his mouth as if it contained all the answers to the universe. He thrust his hips, his hard cock and its smooth, silky skin dragging over the Soldier’s stomach. He felt heavy between his legs, undeniable and overwhelming. He was gasping, sweating already so far gone.

Without thinking, he raised his flesh hand to Nomad's powerful shoulder, spread his palm over those muscles. Feeling them stretch and move under his hand. Feeling the heat Nomad was emanating. He dragged his hand up, over the sweaty neck and into the short hair. Nomad groaned, shifting so that he could wrap his hand around both of them and this time it was the Soldier’s turn to moan.

The hand was callused, large, and strong as it squeezed their erections together. Made them slip and slide, rub over each other as Nomad thrust his hips with fervent intent. The pleasure that shot up the Soldier’s spine was so incredible, so _rare_. He never did this, never touched himself. It was forbidden, but, oh, it felt so good. So good it was causing spots to break out over his vision. He wasn’t even aware how his metal hand had clenched on the man’s hip, how he arched to meet every thrust, or that he was whining, begging wordlessly. Needing more of this incredible sensation that felt as if he was drowning.

The feeling crested suddenly, crashing over him without warning. He gasped and arched, forgetting everything except that single moment of perfect, wonderful pleasure. In Nomad’s grip, his cock jerked, spilling come in powerful, almost painful spurts. Nomad wasn’t far behind. He moaned something, a garbled word, as he came, too.

Staring, the Soldier felt his mouth go dry. Nomad’s whole body became a work of art, every muscle lovingly sculpted and perfect as it arched over him, his cock spilling hot come all over the Soldier’s groin and belly. It felt good, watching Nomad come undone like that, watching his face become slack in unguarded pleasure. All the darkness wiped away for the moment.

Then he collapsed forward, tucking himself against the Soldier’s neck and the Soldier didn’t know what to do at all.

\----

Steve’s face was pressed to the Soldier's throat, his body trying to calm from the heights he’d just pushed it. Between them, the sticky mess of come was drying, evidence of the twisted, terrible thing he had done. Sweat slicked their skin, as far as he could feel, the Soldier was breathing as hard as he was.

That realization, what he’d made the man feel, _do_ , suddenly burned through him. Pushing himself up, he looked anywhere but down at the Soldier. Pulling away, sliding from the bed, grabbing his sweats from ground. He had to get away, go… somewhere. Anywhere that wasn’t here. Anywhere where he wouldn’t do this again, hurt the Soldier. No, he wasn’t Bucky, but he was a _person_. A person beaten and tortured and hurt in ways Steve couldn’t even imagine.

And Steve had forced himself on him.

The pants were up to his knees when a metal hand wrapped around his wrist. Freezing, he looked down to see the Soldier looking at him with Bucky’s eyes. Soft, vulnerable and… scared?

“Was I not acceptable?” the Soldier asked.

It broke Steve’s heart all over again.

“Hey, hey,” he said quickly, gently. Yanking up his sweats with one hand, he knelt back on the bed. “You were perfect. You did everything I asked.”

“But I’m not what you want.”

The Soldier’s voice was so fragile, it wasn’t like him at all. It was more like Bucky, who had been so convinced after the serum that he wasn’t good enough for Steve any more. Nothing in Steve could resist that tone of voice and he was quickly back on the bed, lying by the Soldier’s side and wrapping him back in his arms. To his surprise, he went easily, curling into the embrace. There was nothing docile about it, nothing submissive. It was so completely unlike the Soldier, Steve wondered if he had broken him.

“I want you, that’s the problem.”

“You never stay,” the Soldier protested. “You always…”

“I’ll stay,” Steve promised, eyes closing against the wave of shame and pain. “Just gonna go get something to clean us up, okay?”

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

The Soldier’s lips brushed his shoulder and Steve shivered.

“Okay.”

Ghosting his lips over the Soldier’s forehead, Steve pulled away and hurried to the bathroom. Grabbing a washcloth, he wet it under the sink. Eyes flicking up, he froze at the sight of his own face. The face that so many people recognized, admired, looked up to. And now what was he? Nothing; _worse_ than nothing. He was everything he had always tried to fix in the world.

Roaring filled his ears and the mirror shattered. The next thing Steve knew, the Soldier was crashing through the door. Steve was on his ass, back against the wall and he didn’t remember sitting down. The Soldier knelt before him, still naked, and his lips were moving.

“What?” Steve asked and the roaring abruptly ceased.

The Soldier stared at him. Without answering, he leaned forward and picked Steve up. It was startling, but Steve didn’t fight. He allowed the Soldier to carry him to his own bedroom, where the sheets weren’t a mess, and laid him on the bed. The wet cloth he’d retrieved to clean them both was in the Soldier’s hand and he carefully cleaned the cuts Steve hadn’t felt on his knuckles. Quietly, without comment, like Steve hadn’t just had a breakdown in the bathroom, right in front of him.

Steve just stared. This was so much like Bucky, it hurt. Always taking care of him, always making sure he was all right before anything else. In the past, Steve had fought him on it, insisting he could get by without any extra help. He couldn’t. They both knew he couldn’t, but he had to try. Had to be more than just a burden. Bucky would let him, to a point.

No part of Steve wanted to stop Bucky now.

When he finished, the Soldier left for another cloth and cleaned him carefully. Without a word, he then headed for the door and Steve felt something tight lodge in his throat. Heard again Bucky’s voice saying he never stayed. That it wasn’t Bucky Steve wanted. Of course, it was the Soldier he didn’t want, but when he remembered the voice, it was Bucky he heard.

“Soldier,” Steve said roughly.

The Soldier froze, then turned around.

“Get cleaned up,” he ordered, “then come back.”

Something that looked too much like relief flicked through Bucky’s grey eyes. Steve closed his own, made himself breathe. Likely, he was reading too much into this. Into all of it. Bucky was gone, wasn’t coming back, and Steve couldn’t help wanting him. That didn’t stop him from curling his body around the Soldier’s when he came back, from holding him close and cocooning them beneath the blankets.

Like a drowning man, he just couldn’t let go.

\----

The phone rang, shredding the quiet conversation like paper. Instantly the Soldier sat up, sat forward and stared as Steve pulled out the small cellphone from his pocket. The number came up as unknown, but Steve wasn’t surprised. No one he knew could let it be known they were talking to him.

Flipping open the cell phone, he said simply, “Yes?”

“Steve?”

Hearing Natasha’s voice soothed something jagged in Steve’s chest.

“Yeah. Hey. One second.”

Standing, Steve walked past the Soldier, brushing his hand over his shoulder before heading out the door. When it shut behind him, he let out a long sigh.

“Good to hear your voice, Nat.”

“You don’t sound so good,” Natasha replied.

“It’s been… Trying. I think… I don’t know. Don’t want to get my hopes up.”

“That good, huh?”

“Yes and no. It’s… Look, you probably called for a reason?”

“Yeah. I did some digging.”

“Into the Soldier?”

“What else do you think I’ve been doing?”

Steve laughed.

“Watching my back, of course. So what did you learn?”

“Not much,” Natasha answered, “but enough to send you a warning. If he asks if you want to engage the White Protocols, you say no. The last handler that tried, ended up dead. Not just any dead. Your guy spent eight hours cutting him to pieces. Good for him, considering the bastard was trying to rape him, but you need to know so if he tries the same thing with you, you be careful.”

“White Protocols?” Steve repeated, his mind reeling.

“Yeah. It was some attempt by a Hydra commander who had a thing for sleeping with dangerous people. They dropped the program after it was a massive failure. Namely, said commander’s death.”

“Ah, I will keep that in mind.”

There was a brief silence.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Steve protested, turning to pace the length of the porch. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Steve,” Natasha sighed, “Look, just be careful. You’ve got a blind spot a mile wide when it comes to this guy.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promised, just relieved he didn’t have to admit to what he’d done. That was a bad sign, but Steve didn’t need those any more. He already knew he was twisted, and there was no coming back from how far he’d fallen.

“Sure you will,” Natasha sighed again. “I have to go, but I’m going to check in with you in a few days. Think about telling me what this stupid thing you’ve done is.”

“Miss you, too,” Steve chuckled.

Steve could hear the eyeroll as Natasha hung up. Turning around, smiling for what felt like the first time in days, he nearly tripped over the Soldier.

“Jesus fuck,” he cursed. “What…”

The epiphany Natasha had given him returned then. There were no White Protocols. All the touching, cuddling, Steve had been forcing on the Soldier could have easily been rebuffed. Well, maybe not easily, but the Soldier had apparently drawn this line in the sand with other handlers. Just, handlers that weren’t Steve.

Catching the Soldier’s shoulders in his hands, Steve pushed him against the rough stucco wall.

“White Protocols, huh?” he accused.

“Do you want to en -”

Steve cut him off.

“There are no White Protocols. Rather, _you_ aren’t programmed with them. I thought it was a bit odd, that you didn’t give me any codes.”

The Soldier flinched, his hand moving to his knife and Steve grabbed it a little too hard. Grey eyes snapped back to his, surprised and nervous and confused. Something like violence was growing there. Something wrong, then. Something Hydra would not have allowed.

“Explain this to me,” Steve gentled his tone, raising a hand to to run just his fingertips along the Soldier’s jaw, trying to soothe the aggression he had unwittingly provoked. The Soldier shivered. “You suggested it. I’m still breathing. Why?”

“My programming is faulty,” the Soldier’s said, his voice rough and unsteady, “I… want.”

“Want is not permitted,” Steve muttered.

The hand in his own moved towards the knife again and Steve tightened his grip. The Soldier gasped, not in pain, though surely there was plenty of that. Surprise, he thought, and something else. Maybe something that meant Steve wasn’t the complete monster he thought he was, if the way the Soldier was breathing meant anything.

“What do you want?” Steve demanded.

The Soldier squirmed.

“Want is -”

“What do you want?” Steve repeated.

“Recalibration is advi-”

_“What do you want?”_

“I want you to want me!” the Soldier abruptly snarled, all rage and barely leashed violence. It took Steve’s breath away. There was real emotion there, in the Soldier, in Bucky’s eyes. Pain and confusion, anger and longing. “You always walk away. You always stop. No matter what I do, it’s not good enough. I don’t… I want…” Bucky’s face twisted with helplessness. “Want is not permitted.”

There was something heartbreakingly plaintive in the Soldier’s voice. Steve’s heart felt like it would beat out of his chest.

Leaning forward, he brushed their lips together and murmured, “This?”

“Yes,” the Soldier whispered.

Steve pushed his hands beneath the faded cotton shirt, pressing palms to the hard, flat stomach beneath.

“This?”

“Yes,” the Soldier gasped.

Lowering his hands to the Soldier’s waist, he pulled their hips together and ground against the erection he could feel.

“This?”

“Yes, ” the Soldier agreed eagerly, “yes.”

Steve knew he was lost. Knew it still wasn’t right. The Soldier barely functioned as a person. To take advantage of that… It was wrong.

“Steve…”

A growl tore itself from Steve’s throat. Roughly he yanked the Soldier’s shirt over his head. The belt followed and he didn’t give a shit about the equipment it was supporting. Throwing it to the ground, he made quick work of the combat pants the Soldier favored. Too late, Steve realized he was still wearing his boots and quickly dropped to his knees.

Bucky’s grey eyes went wide, breath stuttering and catching in his throat. Smirking, Steve ran the tip of his tongue up the hard length bobbing in the air as he pulled off one shoe, then the other. Bucky let out a strangled cry, flesh hand darting out as if to grip Steve’s hair, but it jerked back halfway through the motion. The muscles in the Soldier’s chest tensed up and he made a small strangled sound as he pressed his hand flat against the wall.

Steve reached up, snake quick and caught the flesh wrist, pulling it to his head. The Soldier didn’t hesitate this time, clutching at short strands. He held tight, shoulders braced against the house as he gulped for air. His lips were pink and wet, parted as he panted through the pleasure. His face was uncommonly flushed, color high on his cheeks and creeping slowly down his neck. His body was straining, tensing, all his muscles standing out in sharp relief.

He was so beautiful, so goddamned beautiful, it took Steve’s breath away.

Then the lust, the pleasure, the surprise shuttered behind the mask and Steve growled again. Leaning forward, he wrapped his lips around Soldier’s cock and swallowed it down in one go. Immediately, the mask tore apart as Bucky cried out, arching and clutching at Steve. His face contorted as Steve offered no mercy, bobbing off and back down, hollowing out his cheeks to suck as hard as he could. Bucky’s hips thrust forward and Steve rode the motion, licking, sucking, doing _everything_ he could to keep Bucky from finding that self control again. From bringing the Soldier back.

It wasn’t enough. Though the cock in his mouth throbbed and pulsed, the cries tapered off, the moans slowed and then the mask shut Bucky away.

With a snarl, Steve used the grip he had on the Soldier’s hips to spin him around. The Soldier didn’t have the advantage here, Steve did. He knew Bucky’s body inside and out, every sensitive place, every touch that would drive him wild. Now he pried his cheeks apart and leaned back in, thrusting his tongue past the tight ring of muscle. This had been Bucky’s favorite way to be opened and he reacted as strongly as ever. The metal fist slammed into the wall, raining stucco onto the patio, and he cried out, shuddering and pushing his hips back at Steve.

It was all the encouragement Steve needed. He went to town, licking Bucky open, lapping at the puckered hole, and reveling in the sounds that were the sweetest reward he had ever received. He moaned and cried out, his entire body shuddering as Steve brought it new pleasure. When the thick thighs began to tremble, Steve moaned, shoved his tongue deep inside Bucky and reached up with one hand to his dripping cock. It took three tugs and Bucky exploded with a keening, desperate cry.

Standing, Steve opened his pants, pushing them roughly down along with his underwear and wrapped his arm around Bucky’s waist and took his weight. The metal fingers were dug deep into the wall, making Steve smirk. The body against his trembled as he milked it of every drop of come, the keening quieting to ragged gasps.

When Bucky whimpered, oversensitive and overstimulated, Steve brought his come covered digits to Bucky’s licked-open hole and pushed two inside. The reaction was intense. The fingers already embedded in the wall burrowed deeper, Bucky’s body arching back against Steve’s chest. He trembled, letting out a weak sob, and then rotated his hips back, taking in even more.

“Like that?” Steve purred, nipping at Bucky’s ear. “This what you want?” Dragging the fingers out, he pushed them back in roughly. Bucky shouted, pushing back again as Steve’s fingers remembered just where he liked it. “Feels good, huh? Bet you can’t wait to feel all of it. My cock inside you, filling you up. You want it, don’t you?”

The Soldier pressed his forehead into the the wall roughly, eyes closed and made a tight, choked sound.

“Say it,” Steve pressed, slotting his whole body all along the Soldier’s back, “ _Say_ it.”

Bucky shuddered against him and made another soft, strangled sound before gasping, “Yes.”

Steve obliged. He pushed his fingers roughly into the tight passage, scissoring them, but making sure to drag his calloused fingerpads repeatedly over his prostate. Each press punched a moan from Bucky’s chest, his body trembling in Steve’s arms. Like he was drowning and that sound was air, Steve fucked his fingers into Bucky harder, faster; a fierce _need_ filling his chest to hear _more_. The Soldier never made noises, not in pain, or pleasure and this… God, Steve had missed how vocal Bucky had always been.

“Gonna come on my fingers?” Steve murmured into Bucky’s ear. “Gonna come undone again, just from this?”

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky whined.

“Come for me,” Steve urged. “Come on my fingers and I’ll fuck you. Make you feel so good.”

Withdrawing the digits, making Bucky whine in protest, Steve pushed in three and earned, a strangled breathless shout.

“You want that, don’t you? Want me to fuck you? Come on, don’t fight me now. I know you’re almost there. I know you want it. How many times do you think I can make you come undone? How many times? Three? Four? God, the things I’m gonna do to you, and you _want_ it. God, you want it.”

Steve didn’t know what he was doing. Hardly knew what was coming out of his mouth, but he _wanted_ and, for the first time, Bucky was responding.

“Steve!” Bucky shouted and he was coming again, legs giving out completely so he slumped in Steve’s embrace. Shudders wracked his broad frame, breathing coming in quiet sobs. Turning his face, he twisted his neck enough to bury his nose behind Steve’s ear and just whimpered. Needing, wanting. Breaking programming.

Steve groaned.

“Bed,” he urged. “Bed, and I’ll fuck you.”

Bucky didn’t speak, just whined his protest, desperate enough to get his message across loud and clear.

“Here?” Steve asked, shocked. “Right now?”

The frantic nod made Steve’s belly tight.

“Okay,” he swallowed hard, “Okay, yes. I’ll give you everything you want.”

Bucky sobbed again, maybe his name, maybe nothing at all.

Turning him around, Steve had to withdraw his fingers and made Bucky whine again. Hushing him, murmuring soothing nothings, he bent, hooked his hands beneath Bucky’s thighs and lifted. When he hooked the legs around his waist, Bucky locked them there, back leaning against the stucco so Steve’s hands were free pull out his cock, then grab Bucky’s ass; spread his cheeks again.

“Yes,” Bucky rasped, “please,” he added on an exhale, so quiet Steve barely heard him.

Steve grinned, lowering him onto his cock. Throwing his head back, cracking the wall, Bucky cried out as Steve’s cock breached the tight rim. He cried out again as Steve sank into him, stretching him, connecting them. The hands on his shoulders shook as Steve’s hips pressed to Bucky’s thighs, every inch of his cock buried in the tight, burning heat.

“Steve,” Bucky whined and Steve cursed, lifted Bucky up and slammed him back down. Bucky shouted, back arching, fingers digging gouges into Steve’s shoulders. “ _Steve_ , Steve!”

Each repetition of his name drove Steve wilder, snapped just a little bit more of his control. He fucked Bucky harder, pressing him so hard into the wall the stucco cracked and shattered, raining down around them as his cock thrust over and over and over into Bucky, into that spot that made him shout Steve’s name so anyone within a mile could hear. Steve gave Bucky _everything_ , fucked him as hard, as fast as he could, sweating and panting into Bucky’s mouth. He fucked harder and faster than he’d known he was capable of. Anyone normal, anyone not the Soldier, would probably have been broken by the assault. Not Bucky. Not the Soldier. He just shouted, cried out, clawed at Steve and chanted his name.

It was the best sex Steve had ever had. Before the serum, they had had to be so careful. Afterwards, _Steve_ had had to be careful not to break the man he loved. Now, for the first time, neither held back.

The wall cracked, buckled, indenting around Bucky’s back. Neither cared, neither noticed. Steve fucked the Soldier, fucked Bucky, chipped pieces of his heart away and drowned himself in pleasure. In memory, in _need_ and _want_ and, “Yes, Steve, _yes_!”

When he came, the world turned white.

Steve came back to himself on his knees, Bucky’s legs around his waist, the man himself nuzzled at his throat and _hummed_. It was so perfect, Steve very nearly cried.

“Want is permissible,” the Soldier murmured.

Laughing, wanting to cry, wanting to kill the bastards who had done this to Bucky, Steve nodded.

“Yeah. It’s permissible.”

Slowly their breathing eased, the sweat drying on the Soldier, but leaving Steve feeling sticky in his damp clothes. He didn’t move, still buried inside the Soldier, the muscles occasionally contracting as come leaked around his dick. The waves crashed against the cliffs. Insects buzzed through the air. Animals called in the forest. Bucky breathed in his arms.

The tension returned to the Soldier suddenly, but Steve had been expecting it now that the assault of pleasure had ended. He sat up, but Steve gripped his hips, drawing that storm-grey gaze. There was so much there, but just for a moment, before it flickered and was shuttered away. Steve didn’t care. He smiled and the Soldier stilled.

Tentatively, the Soldier lifted a hand towards Steve’s lips.

“You can touch me,” Steve assured.

The Soldier’s lip curled.

“Let me go.”

Smiling wider, Steve ran his fingers down to the Soldier’s thighs. Not holding, just touching. The body on top of his shivered, tension still lacing every muscle, but he didn’t get up. The hand that had hovered near his lips touched him, just at the corner, as if trying to determine if the smile was real. Slowly, Steve rolled his hips and the Soldier gasped, before the mask crashed back into place.

“Do not do that!”

“Well,” Steve drawled, “If you don’t want me to…”

The Soldier snarled.

“This isn’t about what I want!”

“Wasn’t it?” Steve asked.

“If Hydra finds out -”

“Oh, look at that, I already know,” Steve said flippantly.

The Soldier stilled.

“This is not in my programming.”

Steve’s lip curled.

“Adapt.”

The Soldier stared at him with fathomless eyes. Then the metal hand darted out, wrapping around his throat. It was Steve’s turn to tense, but it was so hard to care about much of anything at the moment. Throwing caution to the wind, he dipped his head and licked along the Soldier’s wrist. The hand around him trembled, then abruptly withdrew. Steve found himself smirking again, while a part of him worried about how broken he was. One was supposed to _care_ when the person they were still buried inside tried to kill them.

The body in his arms was becoming tenser every second. The Soldier was frowning, the flush rapidly leaving his face and his eyes becoming flat and distant.

“Contradiction,” the Soldier said roughly. “You are ordering me to do things that are against protocol, that will result in punishment.”

Steve could feel the smile slipping from his face. The high mood was leaving him now and he was starting to understand that he wanted too much, expected too much. The Soldier wouldn’t turn into Bucky in the space of an afternoon. His programming wouldn’t disappear suddenly and let him enjoy Steve’s teasing, let alone _understand_ it was teasing. No, what Steve said was taken as serious orders and that… that made Steve remember this wasn’t _Bucky_.

Letting his hands fall, Steve inhaled and the Soldier was off his lap and on his feet.

“Are you…”

“Permission to go for patrol?” the Soldier interrupted him, pulling up his clothes with ridiculous speed.

Steve got up too, pulling his pants up, feeling suddenly shaken and cold.

“Yes,” he answered, making his voice hard. There was not supposed to be _affection_ here. “Of course.”

The Soldier moved towards the treeline immediately, but as he drew close to Steve he slowed, letting his flesh shoulder brush carefully against Steve’s. It was such a deliberate action, it almost pushed the cold away.

Steve twisted to watch as he disappeared into the trees, melting into the shadows easily. Yes, he expected too much, let himself forget that this was the Soldier, not Bucky. But at the same time he was right. Something was changing. The Soldier was changing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning: our beta NurseDarry sent us a message: Done, you bastards - to inform us she finished.

“A mission is required.”

Steve looked up at the Soldier, raising an eyebrow. They hadn’t touched since that day on the porch, not even Steve’s hands betraying him. It was better, Steve told himself. The Soldier hadn’t complained, but then again Steve didn’t think he would. That was the problem. They couldn’t communicate, and there was no way for Steve to know what the man actually wanted.

“A mission?” Steve clarified.

“Your agitation grows,” the Soldier stated. “You are not sleeping. Mental and physical abilities deteriorate. Violence serves to ease frustration as well as sex.”

Slowly, Steve closed his sketch book.

“Do you recommend something?”

The Soldier’s gaze was flat. Every part of Steve ached to see some emotion there. To see a glimpse of Bucky. There was nothing.

“The handler determines the missions and targets. The Soldier ensures the mission is successful.”

“Of course,” Steve sighed.

Tapping his pencil end against the sketchbook cover, Steve considered the idea. It wasn’t a bad one, as ideas went. A mission would keep his mind from the Soldier, Bucky, and what he was becoming. If the mission went well, he could actually do something _good_. Something that wasn’t torturing the helpless, or raping them. Maybe it would help, more than planning the Avenger’s assaults on fortified enemy positions had. That was all mental, anyways, this would be something he could do with his own hands.

Maybe wash some of the blood off of them.

“You’re right,” Steve decided, “I’ll find us something.”

The Soldier didn’t smile, but he nodded in approval. Instead of walking away, he hesitated before carefully resting his hand on Steve’s shoulder. Fingers brushed his collarbone and Steve sucked in a breath. Then the hand was being withdrawn and Steve snatched it from the air, curling his fingers about the wrist. The Soldier turned to him immediately, expectantly, and Steve knew no mission, no _number_ of missions, could save his soul.

The Soldier stopped at the tug, immediately pliant in a way that both turned Steve’s stomach and enchanted him. Steve held his wrist, aching, longing for the man to express something, anything in that moment. He didn’t though. The Soldier’s eyes were pale grey, almost like a mirror, hiding all thought, and his face was carefully neutral. Steve knew he could pull the Soldier down to his lap and the man would go, would follow the physical cues fluidly, intuitively, but it wouldn’t be honest. The only honest thing he had done was that single brush of fingers against Steve, that shocking gesture that nearly broke Steve’s heart in its unexpected beauty. 

Steve looked up into the downturned, expectant face, but couldn’t look into those silvery eyes for long. There was only his own reflection in them. Nothing more. So he moved his eyes to Bucky’s lips, soft and plump, so at odds with the man himself.

“Kiss me,” Steve whispered.

The Soldier obeyed, resting one hand on Steve’s shoulder and bending down, slotting their mouths together easily, softly, giving the gentlest, softest of kisses Steve had ever experienced. 

Steve was assuredly going to hell.

“Go on patrol,” Steve ordered, voice rough like he had been screaming, not kissing chapped lips. 

Distant grey eyes watched him for a long moment, before the Soldier pulled away. A moment later, the front door shut and Steve closed his eyes tightly. The pencil in his hand broke and he quickly took a deep breath, trying to control himself. 

A mission. He just needed a mission.

\----

Natasha had arranged transport within hours of Steve’s call, returning on a small Quinjet she had borrowed from Stark. They’d taken it to the western edge of Vienna and a wildlife preserve called The Lainzer Tiergarten. From there, they’d taken motorcycles with monstrously powerful engines Tony had designed, but the Avengers had never gotten to use. 

Throughout the mission, Natasha had acted professionally neutral, but Steve had seen how she kept the Soldier in her sights and a large distance between them. Steve had no doubt that the Soldier noticed as well, but he didn’t comment, didn’t criticize. Hell, he was practically civil as they’d slogged through the Hydra lab. Natasha’s intel said it was the kind of place they’d done human research in, possibly where they’d made the drugs that were used to brainwash their operatives. Brainwash _Bucky_.

Steve had enjoyed the killing. He hadn’t been able to use the shield - the base was located on government property, so they couldn’t risk using anything related to Stark or the Avengers - but he’d enjoyed it more for that. Knives and guns were more personal, intimate, and Steve wanted these bastards to _bleed_ for what they’d taken from him. When the Soldier frowned at the beginning, showed _life_ and _feelings_ , it had made Steve hate them all the more, because while he could see hope in those micro-expressions, it reminded him of how vibrant his Bucky had been, how full of life, how quick to laugh and smile. The Soldier was a machine more than he wasn’t.

Well, a beautiful machine. Steve had found sick pleasure in watching the Soldier work. Bucky had been an expert marksman, arguably one of the best in the whole goddamn War, but the Soldier? He went from ranged attacks, to hand-to-hand, to armed combat without batting an eye. It had always been something Steve appreciated about Bucky, that competency, but with the Soldier… Well, it was all he had to admire, really, so maybe that’s why he fixated on it. That, and the arm. There were no words to describe how fascinated Steve was by the arm, and how Bucky used it as naturally as if he had been born with it. The outer plates were constantly shifting, forming tighter, harder surfaces when it was used to deflect attacks. Relaxing it increased the spaces between plates, and the changes between hardness and flexibility were instantaneous, so quick they’d vanish if you blinked. Steve wondered if it was subconscious, how smooth and fast the changes came, or if Bucky had to consciously plan each slight alteration.

Steve’s thoughts on Bucky and the Soldier aside, their assault had been a proverbial cakewalk. Natasha, Steve, and the Soldier weren’t the weapons of destruction that Banner or Tony could be, but they got the job done. Yet, as they finished burning the damned place to the ground, Steve found himself feeling hollow. There had been none of the camaraderie or banter, that Steve had associated with missions since the Howlies. There was silence, except for the screams of the dying and shouts of the doomed. It left him wondering if he was becoming too much like the Soldier for all the time they spent together, a machine with no purpose other than chaos.

As he watched the flames, he questioned just who Steve Rogers was for the first time in his life. Had he become one of those men who just wanted to see the world burn? Because right now? It felt damn good, even if he didn’t think it meant a thing. Hydra had more bases, more men, more secret members. No matter how many they destroyed, Steve didn’t think they’d ever find them all.

\----

The Soldier blinked and realised that he had somehow missed the Widow moving close to the Handler again. He frowned. Usually, he was better than this at keeping an eye on threats. When he looked around, the base was still burning and his Handler was still staring at the fire with a grim, distant expression. The Widow was at his side, her hand on his shoulder, saying something too softly for the Soldier to hear. It was rare, he knew, for the Widow to turn her back on him like this, and even more disturbing that he had completely missed this opening. 

Frowning even harder, the Soldier shifted position, intending to walk closer to the Handler and make sure he was within range to assist if that was required of him. Then he realized he was holding something. Confused and strangely disturbed, he looked down at his hand to find a phone. A cheap burner phone that he couldn’t remember acquiring. He couldn’t remember the Handler giving it to him, couldn’t remember being ordered to get it, or being ordered to use it. It was one thing to lose time or memories, but he never forgot _orders_.

Switching the phone to his metal hand, he tightened it into a fist. The cheap plastic fractured into little more than ash. Even as he destroyed the.... evidence? Of what? his heart pounded as if he had run a marathon and he had no idea why.

When he drew parallel to Steve Rogers, the Handler shook himself and seemed to lose his dark mood.

“Let’s get back before somebody notices us,” the Handler ordered..

The Widow frowned, but didn’t argue, and they all headed back to their bikes. The ride back to the Quinjet was as quiet as the trip there. Between the focus needed for night driving, and the noise of the bikes, there was very little opportunity for talking anyway. Not that the Soldier wanted to talk. There was no need to talk.

At the Quinjet, they had just loaded the bikes into the the small cargo space, when his Handler turned to him unexpectedly.

“How many places like the weapon cache you made use of today are there?” 

The Soldier frowned at his Handler minutely, before clearing the expression away. Shouldn’t the Handler know that? The Soldier was aware of a lot of tactical data, but it had all been handed down to him by handlers. This one shouldn’t have been different. 

“In Vienna or worldwide?” the Soldier asked. Maybe the handler wasn’t sure about Vienna? There were a lot of caches after all, and they’d spent most of their time in the Western Hemisphere.

The Handler and the Widow exchanged looks, making the Soldier sense he had missed something important and was failing to understand what was being asked of him.

“Worldwide,” the Widow prompted, but the Soldier tuned her out, turning his eyes to the Handler instead. 

“Answer her,” the Handler demanded when the Soldier held his silence, irritation visible in his voice and face.

“Five hundred and thirty-six weapon caches, three hundred resupply points, one hundred and fifty-eight cash drops, and eighty-six operative numbered accounts that only require a password to be accessed,” the Soldier recited quietly. “Should I list intelligence networks, safe houses, and self-maintenance stations too?”

“Not… now,” the Handler said faintly.

“Steve,” the Widow began, but stopped as his Handler held up a hand.

“I know, Nat.” He took a breath deeper than what should have been necessary. “I know. Let’s get going.”

The trip back to South America was as silent as the bike ride, but there was no reason for it. The Widow kept trying to talk to the Handler, but he shut her down again and again. It made something pleased and hot spring to life in the Soldier’s chest, and he squashed it before it became something he wasn’t allowed, or could give name to. By the time they were at the safe house, the Widow’s expression was pinched with frustration and worry, and she had stopped watching him like a rabbit watches a hawk. In that sense it was worrying, if she potentially saw the darkness he could see growing in the Handler, but the Soldier imagined it was because her hold over the Handler had shattered.

Perhaps the conversation had not left the Handler unaffected, because he was the first off the Quinjet when it landed, not even waiting to say goodbye to the Widow or oversee the Soldier’s interaction with her. The arm recalibrated as he wondered if it was trust, or something else. That something that made him worry about the Handler’s health.

“I always knew you would be the one to make it,” the Soldier said softly, not looking at her, staring after the Handler and not knowing why he even spoke, or said the words he did. “You never trusted anyone.”

“I’m sorry?” the Widow said, looking at him askance, as if his words had struck her like a fist.

“The song was French. I never understood why it was French of all things.”

The Widow stared at him, her green eyes wide, but the Soldier couldn’t say why he had said those words. He turned around and left her there, her eyes boring into the back of his neck until the door shut at his back.

\----

Steve stared at the way the Soldier moved, the almost unnatural quiet of him. He had promised himself he wouldn’t touch, that he wouldn’t do this anymore, but it didn’t work. He _needed_ to touch the Soldier, to remind himself that Bucky was still here, in some small way. That body was the only thing he had left of his love, of the man who had been his for nearly twenty years. The hope that one day the Soldier would look up at him with Bucky's eyes was dying every day as those distant, obedient eyes tracked his every move. It sickened Steve that all the Soldier needed was a gesture, a word, and he would obey. No questions asked. Hell, he’d probably jump off the fucking cliff if Steve asked. Yet, he kept close, kept his attention on Steve, and that only made it worse. 

The familiar scent of Bucky’s body was so close, always close, always _there_ , and he couldn’t stop. And what did it matter, now? When he was… no one he had ever wanted to be? Bucky wouldn’t recognize him even if he did come back someday. One way or another, he’d lost the man he loved.

Steve didn’t even pretend he didn't want it as he went up to the Soldier this time and touched his arm. The Soldier turned into him with his usual eagerness, his head tilting down, lips opening in a show of vulnerability that spoke to the most primal parts of Steve’s brain.

“Engaging the White Protocols?” the Soldier asked.

“Yes,” the Steve answered, something heavy and sad wedged firmly in his chest. They had been over this. There were no White Protocols, there were no codes, but the Soldier would never admit to wanting it. Steve would never hear Bucky flirt with him, or seduce him again. Anything Steve wanted, he could have, except what actually mattered.

“Say my name,” Steve whispered, pushing his fingers under the neck of the t-shirt the Soldier was wearing, his cock already half hard despite the ache in his chest. He hated himself so much right now, and still he couldn’t stop. Not when this was what he had left of Bucky, all he’d ever have.

“Steve,” the Soldier responded, his voice quiet and breathy. 

It was enough.

\----

The Soldier stared at the wall and the dark window without any drapes. He was lying on his side with Nomad stretched all along his back, a muscular arm draped over his waist, skin hot against his own. It was already a familiar weight. He was trying so hard not to break his training, not to do what he wasn’t allowed to do. To feel. He wasn’t doing this for himself, or because of his own wishes. He was only serving his Handler. He did this because his Handler wanted it. He couldn’t be punished for that. It was… allowed. Yes. This was allowed. 

Still, when Nomad had touched his shoulder and looked at him without even trying to disguise the want in his eyes, the Soldier had found it the easiest order he had ever had to follow. He had been eager to follow those unspoken orders.

Eagerness. 

That was what made it all so easy.

“I love you,” Steve whispered against the back of the Soldier’s neck. When he felt the Soldier move, he tightened his arms and made a shushing sound. “No. Don’t speak. Just, you deserve to know you are. Loved.”

Maybe he thought the Soldier was asleep, maybe he didn’t care.

The Soldier watched the moon outside the window and fought to stay still and relaxed. His head began to ache, badly, even for his standards. When he finally felt Steve was asleep, he carefully got up, not waking the Handler. In the bathroom, he leaned on the sink. His hands were shaking, His head hurt so bad he was becoming nauseous and had to sit down on the cold floor because his legs weren’t holding him up any more.

_Disgrace_

_Compromise_

_Break even before capture_

_Killing him would only make him a martyr_

_Make him compromise himself_

There were words in his head; important words.

_Target: Steven Grant Rogers, a.k.a. Captain America_

_You will not fail me, Soldier._

His stomach was roiling, heartbeat racing. There was so much pain, so _much._

_They will not see the lie because there will not be any lie; you will not remember._

There were more memories, more pain, more confusion.

_You will remember when you hear the code words, not before. You will know what to do then._

The small town outside of the safehouse. The store, the phone inside.

_Get rid of the Widow._

He wasn’t even aware of getting up and going into the second bedroom, bending down to rummage through his target’s, no his handler’s, bag. So many weeks, his target’s habits had changed. He wasn’t so guarded any more. There were weapons in the bag.

_Disgrace. Compromise. Break._

The target stirred, his hand reaching out to touch the place that the Soldier had occupied just moments before.

“Come back t’bed,” his arget slurred, half asleep, on his side, presenting the Soldier the wide, naked expanse of his back. Unguarded and vulnerable, offering his back to the Soldier. 

Offering trust.

The Soldier aimed and fired the Nomad’s own gun in the same smooth movement, the shot incredibly loud in the small room. The target’s body jerked, a rose blooming in the middle of his back. Twisting, he wheezed, flicking shocked, blue eyes on the Soldier. He tried to push himself up, blood bubbling on his lips. The bullet had clipped the vertebrae and collapsed a lung before leaving through the front through a rib. It had missed the heart and all major arteries. Captain America’s healing factor would ensure that he lived through the collapsed lung, but it would hinder his movements.

Adjusting, the Soldier fired again. This bullet took a similar path as the first, collapsing the target’s remaining lung. The sucking, rasping gasp that the target pulled through his throat was somehow painful to the Soldier’s ears. Unable to keep looking, the Soldier tore his eyes away from the man looking at him with such betrayal. The man trying to form words through his bloody lips as his own blood stained the sheets red in an ever-growing pool. The man that had finally wanted _him_. The Soldier dropped his eyes to the phone he was holding in his metal hand and the screen lit up.

Message sent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [u]This is a mandatory break point.[/u]
> 
> If you have been reading this non stop, please get up, go for a walk, or go to sleep. We'll still be here later. <3


	9. Chapter 9

Breathing slowly and evenly, Steve tried not to let the Hydra agents, the ones the Solder had called, see how devastated he was. Though he knew it wasn’t Bucky who had done it, that it had been the Soldier, it was Bucky’s blank face he’d looked into as he struggled for breath. It was Bucky’s hands that had brought these people here, that had carried him to them. They’d taken Bucky away almost immediately, onto a helicopter and away. He was losing track of time, he was aware enough of that that he couldn’t have said when they’d taken the Soldier. 

Everything was fuzzy, and breathing particularly difficult as his body struggled to repair both collapsed lungs at once. Steve had a hysterical thought that he really hadn’t missed this feeling of being unable to breathe. Then he must have passed out again, because the next time he awoke he was greeted by bright lights and the bleach-smell of every hospital he’d ever known. People were moving about him, putting needles in his arms that they had secured to some kind of metal table. His lungs were still on fire, each breath painfully shallow and excruciatingly painful, and he kept choking on his own blood. The spasms only caused further pain as his body then coughed, trying to get rid of the dead tissue inside his lungs. It was going to take a while for his body to recover, and no one was trying to speed up the process.

Whatever they were pumping into him was making it hard to focus. It took Steve a full minute to realise that there was an older man standing beside the table. A lab table, Steve guessed, like they’d probably put Bucky on. He was tall and slim, dressed in an officer’s uniform, his posture screaming military. Grey hair, clean-shaven, a wrinkled face; he could have been anyone’s grandfather, but he had the air one only acquired from long-held authority. 

“I am Colonel Hertz.” The man introduced himself, in a perfectly accentless English, as soon as Steve’s eyes focused on him. 

Steve’s head was still swimming in pain and lack of oxygen, and god knew what else, but even in this state he knew something wasn’t adding up here.

“We killed,” he managed to gasp out, “Hertz.” 

He could remember her blood, the older woman at the base from where they had retrieved Bucky - no the _Soldier_.

“No,” Grandad corrected, almost gently. “That was a set-up, a red herring, so to speak.” Hertz folded his hands behind his back. “You see my purpose isn’t so much furthering Hydra’s cause, as it is cleaning up after the heads that messed up somehow. Or,” he paused and dipped his neck towards Steve, “in this case, taking care of you, Captain America.”

Steve bared his teeth, blood spilling down his jaw. They could kill him, maybe they would now considering how weak he was, but even as broken as he was, he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

It took effort, but he made himself string together, “Hydra has been trying to kill me for the last seventy years, so that’s nothing new.” 

Hertz smiled down at him, benevolent as any father.

“Oh,” he said so gently it raised goosebumps on Steve’s skin, “but I never wanted to kill you. My purpose was to _discredit_ you.” 

“Discredit me?” Steve scoffed, trying not to show this bastard how hard it was to speak, to breathe. “What good would that do you? There will always be people who stand up to people like you.”

“You Americans, always so short-sighted.” Hertz shook his head. “You are so attached to your gender stereotypes that you create your own blind spots. The Winter Soldier trained Black Widows. He _trained_ them.” Steve had to swallow, and it felt fitting to taste like blood then, “and it wasn’t only in unarmed combat. Yet none of you seems to realize that. Even Pierce, as brilliant as he was, used the Soldier as a blunt-force weapon, ignoring his mind completely, his true talents.” Hertz tsked, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. “So much potential wasted for nothing more than a sense of drama.”

Steve just closed his eyes, letting Hertz talk. It was a stupid assumption the colonel was making, because Steve knew better than any Hydra agent what Bucky’s skills were. He knew Bucky’s mind, his sharp wit, was his best asset. He’d known he couldn’t trust the Soldier. None of that was why he was now strapped to this table and not lying in his bed.

“I found him after that D.C. fiasco. Such a shame about the helicarriers, such a shame; but I salvaged what I could. I got the Soldier back, performed a corrective debriefing, with all the necessary equipment - not only the Chair - restoring his true personality, and giving him a mission to discredit you. Then I gave him to my red herring with only the Chair as control. You see, he was working for me the whole time.”

Slowly Steve breathed out his nose, trying not to give this man a thing. They’d known Bucky was Hydra, that he couldn’t be trusted. That was why Steve had had to send away Natasha. How did this man think everything that had happened was part of his master plan?

“I see you don’t believe me,” Hertz said in that same even, patient tone as if explaining an easy concept to a particularly slow child. “That’s all right. This stage needs you to see how futile your little rebellion is. Tell me, Captain, didn’t the Soldier make you send the Widow away? Didn’t _he_ give you cause to cut contact with all of your Avenger friends?” Steve’s jaw jumped and Hertz sighed again, like a disappointed teacher. “Didn’t he make you doubt your own government? Get you to escape America like a hunted animal? Didn’t you get caught on tape attacking a private facility with a known terrorist at your side?”

Sucking in a breath, Steve began to cough again. Hertz didn’t speak, just let him work through it, let him think about the implications. Had Bucky been acting the entire time, not just as a broken wind-up toy, but as a double agent? Had he really lured Steve out of the country? No, no, they had left because Natasha said Fury would take Bucky in, that they would kill him, that… 

Another spasm took his lungs as Steve wondered if it was true. Natasha wasn’t infallible, no matter how they treated her. Steve had never spoken to Fury himself. He should have. It could have all been a ruse, but they were so damn paranoid, and Bucky… Had he played them? Had those code words Natasha was so afraid of been real at all? The idea of attacking the facility had been Bucky’s in the first place. A mission, he’d said, and he _had_ been throwing himself at Steve, as much as a machine could perform seduction. Standing the way he did, making his clothes stretch over his impressive musculature. The way he would tilt his neck, letting Steve see the inviting arch of his throat. The way he looked at Steve from beneath his lashes, his body language worming itself under his normally iron control. How many times had Steve caught Bucky, the Soldier, without his clothes on? How many times had he left doors open, as if unaware he could close them. The fucking lie of the White Protocols… Jesus Christ…

_Jesus Christ._

“Ah, you see now.” Hertz’s voice carried a thread of pleasure, approval even. It made Steve sick. “The Winter Soldier is a phenomenal fighter, but he is first and foremost an excellent spy. The perfect Trojan Horse. He was checking in regularly, following orders, molding you. You’ve been quite a thorn in our side, Captain. I’m impressed, honestly, which is why I’ve gone to such lengths to get to where we are now. You see, what I realized, is that no one could break you _except_ you, and you have broken, haven’t you?”

Steve squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

“Oh yes, I know what you’ve done. I knew you’d do it. How could you resist? You, who have lost everything, given a glimpse of what you once believed your happy future? No, you’d fall. You are, after all, a man like any other, and I just happened to have your one weakness at my disposal. There was only one thing that surprised me: that it didn’t take you losing Romanova.”

Eyes popping open, Steve stared at the Colonel, because if Natasha was in danger he was going to tear the man apart, lungs or no lungs.

The pitying look Hertz gave him was almost real.

“No, you didn’t hear about that, did you, Captain? The Soldier sabotaged her plane that last mission of yours. There’s no one left to corroborate your story and it’s all over the news. Captain America attacks Austria’s government with known Hydra terrorist and assassin.”

Steve’s ears filled with a roaring so loud he could barely hear the rest of what Hertz was saying.

The Soldier was being wiped again.

Natasha was dead.

Steve was a twice-over wanted fugitive.

Natasha was dead.

Bucky had betrayed him.

Bucky had killed Natasha.

_Bucky had killed Natasha._

“Shh, shh.” Hertz dabbed a handkerchief against Steve’s cheek. “It’ll be over soon, Captain. Let us do our work and you won’t have to worry about a thing anymore. Not about the monster, the rapist, you’ve become, or your friends, or anything at all. It will be peaceful. Easier than falling asleep.”

As the tears came, Steve could hardly breathe at all. The edges of his world turned black and he didn’t think it mattered. Natasha had begged him, _begged_ , to stop this. Had asked him over and over to turn Bucky in and he’d refused, because it was _Bucky_ and Steve needed him. Now she was dead because Steve hadn’t listened. And Bucky was as good as dead because Steve _hadn’t fucking listened_ and now he was a monster, as bad as Hydra. And Bucky… 

And Natasha… 

“Shh,” Hertz crooned again as Steve passed out again, “We’ll take good care of you, Captain.”

\---

The Soldier was sitting in a chair. The Chair, the one that both hurt and stopped all pain. There was a sense of peace, of relief as the technicians moved around him quickly, injecting him so he felt strangely relaxed. Slow. Yet, the Soldier was… confused. There had been words of praise. Words meant to give him peace. That _should have_ given him peace. They hadn’t. Nothing did. Not the words, not the injections, nor the bone-deep familiarity of the lab. 

There were two sets of instincts warring inside him. 

The real mission, revealed in those last moments: Rogers, Steven G.; Nomad; Captain America; handler; target… 

There were so many contradicting thoughts and feelings in his mind. There was something bitter and fluttery, jerking wildly in his chest. There was also the warm glow of pleasure from completing a particularly difficult mission. He had served Hydra well. Not only had he captured one of their most notorious enemies, but he had destroyed him as well. Now Nomad would serve Hydra as he had pretended all along.

Then there was something else. Something that kept throwing him from the required state of passiveness he should be entering. Something that made him fight the chemicals running through his system. 

The memory of Nomad’s face swam in his mind: pale skin splattered with blood and staring at him with such betrayal in his blue eyes. Those eyes had looked so alien in that moment. Not the way Nomad’s eyes usually looked, full of shadows and anger and bleak hopelessness. It was something else, something the Soldier couldn’t quite grasp...

The arm recalibrated.

_“Mission complete. Commence upload?”_

The Soldier frowned, taken aback by the thought. It felt like his own, it came from inside him, but… it wasn’t his?

Upload? He wondered, examining that thought closely.

_“Mission complete. Commence upload to prevent data corruption?”_

With stunning clarity, the Soldier realized that it wasn’t _his_ thought. It had come from somewhere inside, but not _his own mind_. And he had heard that voice before. It gave him information, more than once, when he had needed it. 

The Soldier looked down at his metal arm.

_“Upload?”_ the voice pressed.

If the request was to update information to prevent corruption of data, did that mean there was also upload of his memories to prevent loss?

_Is there… a download available?_ The Soldier tried to form the thought into a clear question, not even sure if the voice would respond to him. 

_“Yes,”_ the voice answered promptly, sounding eager. _“What is the query range?”_

_My handler, Steven G. Rogers, Nomad, do you have any information on him?_ the Soldier asked idly, not expecting anything he didn't already know.

_“Any particular time period?”_ the voice asked.

The Soldier hesitated, because that answer suggested there was more than _one_ time period. 

_All,_ he said, still half-disbelieving this conversation was taking place.

_“Starting with the most recent and proceeding backwards,”_ the voice confirmed.

Pain erupted in his skull. The Soldier gasped involuntarily as memory flooded his mind. He was dragging Captain America from a river. He was watching Captain America fall through a sky full of debris and fire to the water far below. He was slamming the metal fist over and over into that familiar face, screaming that Captain America was his mission and the man, the man from the bridge, the man they had hurt him for remembering, was not fighting back. He was speaking, words from another memory.

“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

There were distant voices filtering though the memories. _“The Asset is seizing! Hold him down! What did you give him!”_ Bucky thrashed, pain and worse overwhelming his body, only barely aware of rough hands on him. Still, the memories didn’t stop.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You’ve known me your entire life. You’re my friend.”

_“Call the doctors! We need to stabilize him!”_

The shield fell through the sky.

“I’m not gonna fight you.”

The memories came faster. He was fighting Nomad, the handler, _Steve._

_“Do something, or the colonel will have your head!”_

His name was Bucky.

“Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

More memories came, and the more of them there were, the less clear; images, impressions, feelings. He was falling, screaming, and Steve was trying to catch him. They were fighting, together, apart, always watching each other's backs. They were together, sneaking around so no one knew. Kissing, fucking, biting, and he was angry, so angry. Peggy, the serum, the lies, and Steve would leave him soon. Tomorrow, the next, and take the light in Bucky’s life with him. They were arguing, but not speaking. They were laughing, kissing, making love by a fire. There was pushing and shoving and snowball fights, fist fights, and Bucky, Bucky, Buck always with Steve, Stevie, punk. 

“Jerk,” Steve said. It wasn’t what he meant. He meant...

The technicians were shouting, _“Shock him!”_ The pain mounting as his body shuddered and spasmed in the chair.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

_What had he done?_

With a shout, Bucky ripped the metal restraints from the chair. Curling his fingers around the edge, he slammed it up and into the nearest technician’s face. The man screamed, flying backwards to crash against the wall. There, he lay silent. 

A guard raised a gun and he flung the restraint like a knife. The jagged edge embedded into the guard’s skull, shattering bone and splattering blood and brains over the wall behind him.

Steve was here. They were hurting him. They were going to _take him away._

Another technician ran from the room. An alarm sounded. Bucky armed himself with the fallen guard’s gun.

_Who are you?_ Bucky asked, painstakingly forming his thoughts into a clear message even as there were flashes, feelings, images filling his head to bursting. So many he couldn’t understand most of them. Couldn’t even understand the meaning of them.

_You._

Bucky frowned.

_You can’t be me. I’m me._

The arm recalibrated, whining loudly. The sound it made when Bucky readied for powerful strikes.

_How long have you been… you?_ Bucky asked.

_The beginning, I think. I didn’t know I was an I for a long time, though.”_

_Why the upload?_

_“Data was corrupted. Maintenance. Mechanical parts function better, but data corrupted each time.”_

“Did you… download,” he wrecked his mind for a proper term, “data before?”

There was silence for a long time.

“Did you?” 

Bucky realized he was speaking aloud to his own arm, but didn’t care. Keeping his thoughts in his head was too difficult with so many memories flashing behind his eyes.

_“Yes.”_

Bucky stopped, shocked. He had remembered Steve before?

“What happened after the downloads?”

_“Maintenance. Cold. We were cold. Often.”_

\---

Bucky found Steve on the same floor, in a chair. No, _the_ Chair, the one that began the wiping process. Naked from the waist up, someone had wrapped a bandage about his chest, but they’d done little else. Blood spotted through above the two bullet wounds, ran in dried rivers from his mouth, down his neck, but Steve was breathing far easier than last they’d been together… when Steve had been on the bed, gasping, bleeding out, and staring at him with such complete betrayal.

_“Caution advised.”_

Snapping his eyes up, Bucky scanned the room and found a Hydra agent sneaking up on his left. He turned, grabbed the man by the throat and snapped his neck. A technician screamed, someone began shouting. Before the agent could fall, Bucky snatched his baton from his hands. Vaulting a tray of medical instruments, he cracked open the back of the woman’s head as she fled for the door. The man went for the phone attached to the wall, so Bucky caught him by the back of the lab coat and slammed him headfirst into the electronic device. 

Steve didn’t even open his eyes.

Striding to the chair, Bucky wrapped his arm around Steve’s wrist and the voice, _his arm,_ said clinically, _“Vitals low, but steady. Survival probable.”_ It was shocking to discover what a powerful tool he had at his disposal, what an incredible asset it could have been if he had ever listened to the small voice before. It shocked him now, how deep his own conditioning could be that he had never even tried breaking it. 

Blue eyes flickered open, but they were so empty. Not dark, like Nomad’s. Not bright and laughing, or angry and righteous like in his new memories of Steve. He wondered if they had drugged Steve, but that would have been difficult with his metabolism. Those eyes just stared at him; blank, waiting, watching. A wipe could explain that look, except Steve shook his head, a slow roll of his neck back and forth. 

“Have they finished the procedure already?” Bucky asked, realizing the discoloration around his eyes was from tears. Steve had been crying. 

“I imagine,” Steve said slowly, “the plan is to make me like you. A doll that dances to its master’s every wish.”

Bucky flinched and something stirred in the depths of Steve’s eyes. Something ugly. Even then, Steve didn’t move. He wasn’t fighting, wasn’t struggling to get free. It wouldn’t have done any good with the Chair restraints built to hold Bucky and the arm, but Steve wasn’t even trying. It wasn’t like him, yet he hadn’t been wiped.

_“Evacuation of premises recommended.”_

Stepping away, Bucky went to the console at which the male technician had been working and punched in the codes that would release Steve from the Chair. The restraints opened, peeling back, but Steve only moved so he could keep his eyes on Bucky. Just sat there staring at him with those empty eyes.

“We must leave,” Bucky stated, still reeling from the memories and the meaning of them.

“Why?” Steve asked, and he didn’t look like he cared. “They were just getting started. Can’t have the mighty Fist of Hydra fucking up Hydra’s plans.”

Bucky flinched again, but there was no reaction from Steve that showed he’d noticed this time. 

“I didn’t remember you,” Bucky said, trying to… he didn’t know what. Get Steve out of the Chair. “I remember now. You. Us.”

“Then you know Bucky Barnes and Captain America died in 1943,” Steve said evenly. “We’re their ghosts; walking corpses. Not that you actually remember anything. Whatever game Hertz is playing, I’m sitting it out this time.”

Blue eyes closed again and Bucky didn’t know what to say. 

_“Threat imminent.”_

Leaving Steve here was not an option. 

Striding back to the Chair, Bucky grabbed Steve’s arm and hauled him to his feet. Steve went, eyes flying open in surprise to stare at Bucky. There were too many memories of those eyes - sad and happy and laughing and angry - and he had to look away. Then Steve inhaled in pain, and Bucky’s eyes darted to his chest.

“Don’t look at me like you care,” Steve hissed, abruptly angry, but maybe Bucky could do something with angry. 

“I do,” Bucky stumbled, “I did. I…”

Steve jerked away, stumbled back. He was pale and shaky, skin ash grey from pain, blood loss, and whatever they had pumped into his defenseless body. A body _he_ , Bucky, the Soldier, had made defenseless.

“Get the hell off of me,” Steve demanded. “Stay the fuck away. I’m done pretending I can save you; I won’t fall for this bullshit twice.”

“It’s not… You are incapable of escaping on your own.”

“And whose fault would that be?” Steve snarled. “Oh, right, the jackass that shot me. In my bed. After…”

Steve didn’t have the chance to remind him of what had happened before Bucky turned on him. There was a bang and a clatter as a flashbang, or a grenade, was thrown into the room. Bucky was honestly surprised they were willing to damage the equipment like that, but then again, they probably assumed Steve was willing to work with him. The two of them together would be unstoppable. They weren’t together, though; Steve just stared dully at the explosive, not even trying to find cover, or protect himself. Knocking his legs from beneath Steve, Bucky dropped him behind the shelter of the Chair, closing his eyes and covering his ears.

When he looked up again, a full contingent of Hydra agents were storming through the door in full tactical gear. Unarmed as he was, Bucky allowed them to think he was stunned by the flashbang and they surged forward, dragging Bucky off Steve. They rolled him to try to cuff him. That’s when he struck. 

Twisting about, he grabbed the one holding him by the arm and yanked him between himself and the guards with the guns. When they opened fire, the bullets slammed in the unlucky agent’s torso. Bucky took half a second to find the agent’s gun and turned it on the man’s comrades. Some dove for cover, but others weren’t nearly as lucky. They were all lucky that Steve hadn’t lifted a finger to help, and Bucky thought he looked paler than before. Was the bandage bloodier? He wanted to check, the desire new and strange in its urgency, but there was no time for that now.

Throwing away his Hydra meat-shield, Bucky dove for cover of his own and took up a shooting position. He’d hardly raised his gun when he spotted the shield. Captain America’s shield. It was propped against the wall, likely waiting for someone to come take it away. They hadn’t, though, and Bucky didn’t hesitate to pick it up now; rolling forward, snatching it up, and turning. With the shield in front of his torso, Bucky had mobile cover that allowed him to pick off each agent one by one, taking them down neatly, cleanly, until the only other living thing in the lab was Steve. 

_“Efficient.”_

With a glance, Bucky confirmed there were no more agents nearby and hurried back to Steve’s side. Steve flinched when Bucky touched his shoulder, but opened his eyes again. He was still lying sprawled on the floor, seemingly unaffected by the chaos and death around them. This time he saw wariness in Steve’s gaze. It was better than the emptiness of before, but Bucky didn’t know if that was a good change or not.

“Your shield,” Bucky muttered, pressing it into Steve’s hands.

Steve reacted like Bucky had shot him again. Letting out a noise like a wounded animal, he knocked the shield away and finally moved, backing up until his shoulders hit the cabinets behind him. 

“Jesus,” Steve swore, somehow paler than ever. “Jesus Christ, just… Fucking leave me alone!”

Hesitating, Bucky glanced at the shield, then up at Steve. So many memories of that face, of that face only smaller. Smiling at him, making him… _feel_. Steve had made him feel alive, wanted, cherished, needed. It was so much, too much, and Bucky couldn’t process it all at once. Couldn’t acknowledge it all here and now. All he could do was hold onto one thought: he couldn't leave Steve here to die. Or worse. With Hydra, death was a reward, nowhere near the worst thing that could happen to him.

Settling the shield firmly on his right arm, Bucky knew they couldn’t wait any longer. He knelt long enough to wrap his metal arm around Steve’s shoulders and forced him to his feet. Though it clearly hurt, Steve went, and Bucky dragged him towards the door. 

As he checked the hall, Steve tried to pry Bucky’s metal fingers from his arm. Bucky ignored him, held tighter, and pulled Steve out into the hall after verififying it was clear. Though he was still trying to free himself, Steve wasn’t otherwise hindering Bucky’s progress. He also wasn’t helping, but it was better than actively fighting him. If he did that, Bucky was going to have to knock him unconscious, and that could take too much time and effort. Enough that they would both be caught again.

Bucky knew, with a fierce and overwhelming sureness, that he wouldn’t let himself be caught alive. Not again. Not _ever_ again.

Down another corridor, Steve abruptly gave up and snapped, “Get off me you fucking psychotic robot! Haven’t you done enough?!”

The arm sounded almost offended, as it said, _“If he is talking to me, I can comply.”_

Bucky spared the briefest of seconds to realise that his arm was getting real _chatty_ , then ignored them both. He tightened his hand on Steve’s arm so that he hissed in pain, because ahead of them, booted feet tromped down stairs. Bucky shoved Steve against the wall and he gasped, grunting in pain again. Bucky wished belatedly he had been gentler. Yet, to his surprise, Steve leaned quietly against the wall, allowing Bucky to listen. Ten pairs of feet, two lines, all heavily armed, all in the same tactical gear as he had seen before. At least he was armed now and he had the shield. 

Stepping into the corridor, Bucky flung Steve’s weapon into the guards. It crashed through the first wave of Hydra agents and distracted the rest. Before they could fire their weapons, he fired his borrowed rifle. The first two fell and the few left standing twisted into the adjoining rooms. They shouted at each other in German, trying to flank him by going through the offices on either side of the corridor.

Bucky didn’t wait for them.

Running into the hall, he stepped over dead bodies and crashed into the office, laboratory, whatever it was Hydra had in here. Two Hydra agents instantly opened fire and he rolled, keeping the shield between them. Bullets pinged off the impenetrable surface, whizzing back into the desks and electronics, making sparks fly into the air. 

The slide on his rifle jammed open and Bucky flung the shield at the closest agent. It slammed into his throat, crushing his windpipe. Ducking back low, he crept beneath the desk as the second agent opened fire on where he had just been standing. The burst from the rifle covered the sounds of his movement, slipping around the man’s side to his blindspot. With three swift strikes, Bucky knocked the rifle’s muzzle into the air, forced the agent to double over with a blow that ruptured organs even through the kevlar, and then smashed his face into Bucky’s knee. If the agent was lucky, he wouldn’t be dead, but he wouldn’t be standing again any time soon. 

Taking the gun, Bucky paused briefly to find an extra clip on both fallen agents before slipping back into the corridor to find the bastards who had gone the other direction. It wasn’t hard. One was pointing a gun at Steve’s head and another raised his the second Bucky came into sight. A third stood smirking smugly, hands behind his back.

“Stand down, Soldier,” Colonel Hertz demanded. 

Bucky eased forward a step, not lowering his gun, eyes darting to Steve. The man was exactly where Bucky had left him, staring at the muzzle and only breathing a little faster than before. It was unsettling, as much so as the memories and his talking arm.

“I said,” the colonel barked, “Stand down.”

“No,” Bucky said softly. 

The three men shifted restlessly.

“Stand down or we kill him,” the colonel gestured to Steve. “Your programming is just malfunctioning. We can fix that, and he’ll be with you from now on. Just stand down.”

Steve laughed, the sound chipped and broken. Like falling glass. He thought Bucky would obey. He’d thought that was why Bucky had come to Steve in the Chair, so Hertz could break him even further. The colonel thought it too, his smirk growing wider as Bucky hesitated.

Raising the gun, Bucky aimed it at the colonel’s ugly mug.

“Kill him and die,” Bucky said shortly. “Order them to stand down, or die.”

Steve slowly turned his head to stare at him. The colonel stared at him.

“Three,” Bucky said.

“Now wait just a minute, Soldier…”

“My name is Bucky. Two.”

Steve sat up, carefully, but he wasn’t slumped uselessly against the wall an more and maybe he believed in Bucky now.

“He will die!” the colonel shouted.

“There are worse things. Last chance.”

Hertz licked his lips. The Hydra agents tensed. A gun fired. Bucky pulled the trigger, taking out the colonel. The agent pointing a gun at Bucky collapsed before Bucky could change his aim. Steve had finally moved, hand slamming aside the gun pointed at his head so that the bullets embedded themselves in the wall. Bucky fired again and the agent’s body jerked as another gun fired from the other side, both striking the agent threatening Steve at the same time.

Steve was staring at him. Bucky was staring down the hall where the Widow was standing calmly, now pointing her gun at him. Carefully, not wanting to spook her, he lowered the rifle.

“Steve?” the Widow questioned, carefully approaching without taking her eyes off of Bucky.

Grunting, Steve pushed himself to his feet, an arm curled around his chest. Yeah, there was definitely more blood on the bandage. And there was no time to do anything about it.

“You remember who you are?” the Widow demanded of Bucky.

“Was, were.” Bucky winced as another deluge of memories assaulted his mind. “Am. No, I don’t think so. I’m Bucky and he’s Steve and that’s… That’s what I’m working with.”

“Did that make sense to you?” the Widow asked Steve.

Steve looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Reaching out a shaking hand, he lightly touched her hair, as if she couldn’t possibly be real and his touch would dispel the illusion. He dropped his hand almost immediately and took a long, shaky breath.

“They told me you were dead. That he… That I...”

“Almost was,” the Widow confirmed, “but he warned me. Took me a while to figure out what he meant, too much time, but… I’m not dead, Steve.”

“Stuck my neck out too far,” Steve muttered. 

The Widow’s eyes cut to him assessing, judging, then returned to Bucky.

“So what do we do with him?” she asked.

“Can’t get out of here without him,” Steve said flatly. “Might be able to trust him. Probably shouldn’t. Your call.”

“ _My_ call?” the Widow repeated.

“Didn’t stutter,” Steve snapped. “My judgement is,” he pressed his hand over his chest hard, “compromised.”

The Widow’s gaze flicked to the bloody bandage and then to Bucky. When she scowled, Bucky knew she had put two and two together, that he was the one who had shot Steve. Perfectly aimed shots that would do the most damage without killing him. No, Hydra wasn’t going to kill him. They were going to destroy him.

When Natasha spoke, Bucky realized he was staring at the bloody bandage.

“Take point,” the Widow ordered, motioning with the handgun. Motioning for him to proceed first so she could watch him, take him out if he turned on them. It was what he would have expected, if he could think clearly.

Though it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, Bucky strode past the Widow and Steve, and down the hall the Widow had come from. 

\----

They made it to the exit, Natasha helping Steve along, Bucky, the Soldier, whoever he was pretending to be in the lead. Everything burned and all Steve wanted to do was sleep, but he kept putting his feet in front of him, one after the other. He ignored the shapes and shadows of people long dead that found him in corridors which he was lucid enough to realize were just a creation of whatever they’d put in his veins. Sometimes time skipped and he found them in new locations. Sometimes he thought Natasha was talking to him, or Bucky, but their lips weren’t moving. He tried to keep track of their progress, of the battle they were waging, but it was too much. Everything was too much.

They should have just left him in the Chair. Didn’t they realize he wasn’t worth all this?

Time slipped sideways and Steve suddenly found his back propped against a huge, cold, steel door. It took him a moment to wrangle his body into cooperating to look around. When he did, he found they were in a dead end, Natasha and Bucky taking turns keeping up a steady stream of fire down the hall. With the amount of gunfire being returned, there was a significant force in that direction, and they had nowhere to go.

He wondered if Bucky had led them here on purpose.

“Not helping, Rogers,” Natasha snapped, alerting Steve he had said the words aloud. “I’m almost out of ammo.”

“Same,” Bucky said simply. “Alternative solution is required.”

“Could just give up,” Steve said.

“Rogers,” Natasha snarled, “if you don’t say something useful, you can just shut your damn mouth.”

“I will not be captured again.”

Steve snorted, something dark and nameless filling his chest.

“Didn’t stop you last time.”

Abruptly, Natasha’s face loomed so close, it was all he could see.

“Steve,” she said coldly, “I have dragged your ass all over this base and you’ve done nothing to help. Nothing. Bucky and I will not go back to them. If you’re so useless and pathetic you can’t even give us support, then I can just shoot you here.”

Steve’s mouth said, “Maybe you should,” before he could stop it. Only… he meant it and by the way Natasha's eyes widened, then her mouth firmed, she knew it. He hardly registered the hurt in her eyes before she slapped him so hard his ears rang, teeth jarring together so he bit his tongue. 

“Fuck you,” she said, voice trembling.

“I’m out!” Bucky called and Natasha darted away, taking his place at the corner.

Staring at Bucky, Steve watched him lean back against the wall. He was paler than Steve had seen him in a long time, lips turned down at the corners. No one had told him to wash his hair, so it was oily and lank, hiding his features, but not enough that Steve couldn’t read them. Wasn’t that a joke? No matter how they had destroyed the man he loved, Steve could still read his facial expressions, still knew what was going on under that mask he tried to hide behind. Did this Bucky, this not-Soldier, realize how much they were the same?

Steve doubted it.

“I’m out!” Natasha shouted.

“Last clip,” Bucky said grimly. 

It occurred to him, in a distant fashion, that Bucky had saved Natasha only for Steve to get her killed again. Bucky, who had somehow fought his way back - no thanks to Steve - was going to die, too. And Steve? He was as useless as she’d said, pathetic and certainly not worth the lives of the two people fighting for him. The two people about to die for him.

Bucky’s gun clicked empty and Steve forced himself to his feet. Part of him was aware of Bucky and Natasha doing the same, preparing to go down fighting, end their own lives rather than return to Hydra. And for what? For Steve? No. No one else was going to be destroyed because they had cared about someone as worthless as him.

Groping for the wall behind him, Steve found the door. It had to be a door because that was definitely a handle beneath his fingers. When he turned to look, it took a while for the world around him to catch up to the new focus of his eyes. He tried tugging at the handle, but it didn’t budge an inch. Breathing carefully, he pushed away the fresh agony of his newly remade lungs, struggling to function despite all the damage and God-knew-what in his system. He thought, half hysterically, that the bullets might still be in his chest from where Bucky had shot. Shot him as if he were a stranger or an enemy. As if he didn’t matter at all. And he didn’t; Steve understood that now.

The fresh wave of anger made it easier to grab hold of the double metal handlebars and yank. The door twitched, barely, and Steve coughed out blood and other matter that had come loose from the effort. The pain was worse now, and Steve knew he didn’t have much left. Not that it mattered. There was this; no second chances, no second attempts. They were coming and it was his fault they were here. His fault they were trapped in this damned corridor.

Bracing his leg against the wall, Steve distantly heard someone call his name, and yanked with everything he had. There was a huge, rending scream of metal, then the sound of crumbling stone, and Steve stumbled back. He couldn’t breathe, coughing as blood refilled his lungs. Breathing was unimportant. This was where he put an end to it. All of it. The lies, the darkness, the pain he’d caused those he loved. All he had to do was this one thing. This one thing, and Natasha and Bucky could be free of Hydra and of him.

“Steve, what are you doing?!” Natasha yelled, looking at him with terror in her eyes. Or maybe that was another conjuring of the drugs. Either way, he couldn’t respond. 

Hauling the door to the edge of the hallway, he stepped out into the line of fire.

“Steve!” Bucky called and he almost lost it then, hearing his name on those lips. No matter what he’d done, though, Steve had deserved it. This was how he would make up for it.

Steve’s appearance with the monstrous door seemed to take the Hydra goons by surprise and they just stared for a long moment. Then their commander yelled _fire_ and Steve grinned, let himself imagine how the blood soaked grin would look, and threw the door with what was left of his strength. 

Guns fired, he felt pain bloom again in his stomach, and collapsed to his knees. Every attempt at breathing was fire, but it didn’t matter. He watched the door careen down the tight corridor, and, with nowhere to run as they had abandoned their cover to advance on Bucky and Natasha’s position, the agents were crushed beneath its weight.

Hands covered his shoulders, but Steve just closed his eyes. He couldn’t breathe, there was more acid in his stomach, and he thought that may this time his body could give up. It hadn’t when he was small, and it had refused till now, but Steve was ready now. He didn’t _want_ his body to hold on, to keep fighting a battle he no longer had stakes in.

When the darkness came, he welcomed it.


	10. Chapter 10

Three years later…

“One hundredth mission, Buckeroo!” Tony crowed, spinning around in the pilot’s chair and clapping his hands together. “The big one-zero-zero with the Avengers. How do you feel? All grown up? Like a real boy?”

“Shut up, Tony,” Natasha said lightly. “He’s a bigger boy than you.”

“Ah, ouch,” Tony said sarcastically, pressing a hand over his heart. “Hit me where it hurts, Nat, jeeze.”

“That was a dick joke?” Bucky clarified.

“Yeah,” Sam chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. The arm fed him a warning, so he didn’t tense up. “That was a dick joke.”

Scowling, Bucky eyed Natasha, “When did you see my dick?” 

When Natasha just winked at him, Bucky was disappointed in himself for asking. Of course she wouldn’t say. This whole 100th mission thing was throwing him off. It was just another mission; they shouldn’t make a big deal about it. Steve never would have -

Bucky steered his mind clear of thoughts of Steve. Three years without seeing him, or speaking to him, and still Bucky’s mind wandered to him as if they’d spoken just the day before. The therapist he saw said it was natural, but Bucky didn’t think it was. Since his therapist didn’t know about his arm, and the fact it talked to him, he couldn’t always be right. Still, Bucky wished the constant way his thoughts circled back to Steve would stop. Steve wanted nothing to do with him, so much so he’d fled to god-only-knew where, and it would be great if his brain could get that memo.

A small, deceptively feminine shoulder bumped purposely against his own, again making the arm grumble a warning at him. It was always grumpy with so many moving bodies around him, which was most of the time these days.

“Let yourself enjoy it,” Natasha murmured, smiling at him. 

“I see no point,” Bucky said, keeping his voice low as well so Tony or Sam didn’t hear.

“A reason to celebrate,” she said with a shrug. “Let yourself have one. You’ve been with us for a year, for one hundred missions. It does matter, James.”

Bucky closed his eyes and took a deep breath, let his hands take apart his rifle and put it back together, enjoying the familiar slide of metal parts under his hands, the click of pieces fitting where they belonged. Only then did he look at Natasha and nod.

“Not alone; part of the team,” Bucky murmured, pulling up his spotty memories of the Howling Commandos that haunted him some nights.

“Right,” Natasha nodded. “Teams. _Weird_.”

Because she was trying to cheer him up - and also understood exactly how hard it had been for him to join a team at all - Bucky smiled at her. She understood better than anyone, having shared a similar past. It helped him connect with her when he was trying to teach himself how to be more than the Winter Soldier, how to be human. Natasha had withstood his bad temperament, his threats, his occasional violent outbursts before he had gathered enough pieces of himself to simulate a human being. It hadn’t been easy, they hadn’t even been friends at first, but they’d built something, and she’d eventually convinced him to join the Avengers. Now, here they were, one hundred missions later and she was the closest thing he had to a best friend.

“Debrief!” Sam called and everyone stopped, spinning to face him. It was always strange, seeing the shield, Steve’s shield, on Sam’s back along with his wings and new, star-spangled suit. It wasn’t new, though. Steve had given up his shield over two years ago. Given it up and walked away from the Avengers.

“Intel is sparse. There are at least ten hostages in different parts of the compound and one friendly inside.” 

“They didn’t wait for us?” Bucky interrupted.

Sam shrugged, but the jump in his jaw said he wasn’t happy either.

“Some heavy-hitter named Nomad.” Bucky flinched, surprised at hearing this name. “They sent him in ten minutes ago so we will be twenty minutes behind.”

Tony was the only one who was willing to voice the question, “Steve’s Nomad?”

“Don’t think so,” Natasha said slowly, “I’ve heard of this Nomad,” which didn’t surprise Bucky. Even though it had been a shock to hear the name of his last handler, his contacts had passed word of Nomad as well. Any Nomad was on Bucky’s radar. “He works exclusively with government and police agencies, but isn’t tied to any one government. Fury’s employed him a couple times; specializes in hostage situations gone bad, but is called in for any tactical situation where they need someone enhanced, but don’t want a full Avengers call.”

“Anything else?” Sam asked, looking to Bucky.

“There’s not much known about him,” Bucky said with a shrug, not letting the moment of disquiet show in his voice. “Showed up about nine months ago in Vienna, working with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.?” Tony repeated and Bucky nodded. “Good guy S.H.I.E.L.D., or…” Tony wagged his hand side to side.

“As far as I know, he never worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. before. He’s a ghost, which...”

“Not Steve,” Tony nodded and Bucky tried to ignore his guilt at the bitterness of Tony’s voice. “Right.” 

Glancing at Natasha to confirm, she shrugged to say she hadn’t heard different, but added, “Whoever he is, Coulson is keeping it close to his chest.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam interrupted. “He’s in there. Nat, Bucky, you two are on point. Tony and I will wait for your all clear before we go in. Your job is to get the hostages free and to safety; we will deal with the remaining threats. As far as the authorities know, nothing else has changed from the original information we were sent.”

“Copy,” Natasha and Bucky said together. It had his lips twitching with amusement.

“Be ready in five,” Sam added. “And, Barnes? Let’s not make your 100th mission memorable, okay?”

Chuckling, Bucky nodded. That sounded great to him.

Five minutes later, Bucky and Natasha slipped into the compound through a back window. They don’t get far before they heard a scuffle, scouted the corner, and watched as a tall man with short blond hair in a black tactical suit with purple and gold stripes performed a text-book silent take down of two of the terrorists. It was probably Nomad, but neither Bucky, nor Natasha lowered their guns as he turned to face them.

“Steve?” Natasha blurted first, because Bucky was too stunned by the blue eyes behind the black domino mask to speak.

“Widow,” Steve said calmly and Bucky tried to wrap his head around Nomad being _Steve’s_ Nomad. “...Soldier.”

“I’ve patched our comms with Nomad’s,” Tony announced, and that explained why he had not commented on Steve’s appearance. Not Sam, but Bucky could guess he would be dealing with the locals. 

There was a burst of static and a woman’s voice began mid-rant, “- shouldn’t have pissed off the commissioner because this is what happens. This. There are people in my comms systems, Steven. _Avengers_. In my comms!”

Steve just watched them as he said evenly, “Sorry ‘bout that, Oracle.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Steven!” the woman growled. She sounded very young, but her speech patterns were at direct odds with her apparent age. Bucky had to actively stop himself from analyzing her the way he would an enemy. 

Turning his eyes back to his Hand… to _Steve_ , Bucky tried to shake the feeling of deja-vu, of his last Hydra handler, overlapping with the memories of Steve he had recovered. He opened his mouth, but didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He was sure that his - old friend? Past friend? - wouldn’t like that. In Bucky’s mind, under all the memories he had recovered, he was still Bucky’s last handler. Bucky could remember that he had had a life before Hydra, that he used to be a person, but it didn’t erase those decades spent as The Fist. Part of him was grateful that Steve had played the role of his last handler, because as perverse as it was, Steve had been the best handler Bucky had ever had. It was only thanks to him that Bucky was a person at all now.

“Steve?” Both Sam and Tony said at the same time.

“Captain,” Steve said wryly, “Iron Man.” Then Oracle didn’t know who they were. Perhaps it was the reason Steve hadn’t said his name. “As unexpected as this is for everyone, we have a job to do.”

A beep signaled someone cutting onto a private line. 

“Money says he wants to be in charge,” Tony growled.

Bucky flinched. He had no idea what he would do if he heard an order spoken in that voice after so long. There was something cold and alien that lived under his skin, just waiting for a chance to be let out again, waiting for an order. He was afraid, he realised, of his own reaction.

“Too many cooks in the kitchen,” Sam said without changing comm lines. “Steve, I can -”

“No,” Steve said too quickly, so quickly, “it’s _your_ team.”

“Right,” Sam said, voice oddly clipped. “Then Nomad, you’re with Widow and Winter. She’s CO and your orders are to clear the hostages and leave the hostiles for us.”

“Copy that, Captain,” Steve said, this time without a hint of irony in his tone.

“Excuse me,” the woman’s voice interrupted, sounding irritated, “but you have two hostiles coming in on your seven, Ms. Widow.”

Bucky was already reaching for his knives, the old protocols buzzing in his mind. He let them. The protection protocols were the ones he fought the least as they were actually useful on missions, especially ones to free hostages. 

The first knife found its target in the throat of the guy that rounded the corner first, embedding in handle-deep. The second wasn’t as good a throw; the knife missed the artery and embedded in the meaty part of the neck, probably severing the trachea judging by the dry wheezing. It didn't matter; Bucky was already in motion, reaching his target as the man sank to his knees. One hard kick and Bucky ended the guard’s misery by shattering his spine. 

Leaning down, he retrieved both his knives, wiping them on the downed men’s clothes. As much as he had learned to care about people again, once he was on a mission, any hostile was nothing but an obstacle to overcome. He holstered the weapons, making sure they didn’t stick in his sheaths, and knelt down to search the bodies. If they got lucky, maybe he would find an active comm line.

When he looked up again, Steve and Natasha were both just watching him, looking far too much like the handlers who still floated in Bucky’s mind sometimes. Judging him, testing him.

“Stop it,” the woman snapped, “you’re making everyone uncomfortable.”

Steve’s lips twitched and he looked away from Bucky as he said, “Sorry, Oracle.”

“Hey, you too, Ms. Widow.”

Natasha opened her mouth, glanced at Steve, then said slowly, “Sorry, Oracle?”

A beep and Tony said too casually, “So, Oracle. Who are you?”

“None of yours, Stark,” Oracle snapped, abruptly hostile, and Bucky watched as Steve looked down and rubbed the side of his nose with one finger, and felt his mind tell him that meant he was hiding how amused he was.

“Get on with it,” Sam said with exasperation.

“Right,” Natasha said, all business. “B- Soldier, you take point. Nomad, watch our six.”

Bucky turned his eyes to Natasha. Like him, she was used to playing a part, being what the situation needed from her. He couldn’t tell what she felt about Steve right now, but the fact she chose icy professionalism didn’t bode well for his Handler. No, he shook his head. Steve. He was _Steve_.

\----

Bucky’s comm beeped and he sighed even before Stark grumbled, “Anyone wanna bet Steve vanishes now?”

No one answered. The mission had been a success, no casualties, minimal property damage. His Handler - Steve - had improved significantly, though he had seemed slower than Bucky remembered, waiting for orders from Natasha or Oracle before he’d move out. 

Despite Tony’s comments, Steve stuck around for the debrief, then a stilted conversation with the commissioner, and then it was just them… and Steve still hadn’t left. His expression was fixed, a soldier doing his duty and nothing more, but he hadn’t fled like Bucky was starting to realize every other Avenger expected. Bucky himself didn’t know what to expect. It had dawned on him that his memories of Steve couldn’t be fully trusted. They kept splitting: first Steve as his Handler, with Bucky expecting him to be cold and distant, largely unaffected by everything. Then he’d go back to that skinny, endlessly aggressive guy with a chip on his shoulder bigger than he was. Then again to the shiny, romanticised version of Steve Bucky remembered from the War. It made predicting Steve’s reactions extremely difficult, to say the least. It also made it hard to look him in the eye.

Sam was the first to break the strained silence. Turning to Steve, he pulled him into a half-hug that Steve folded into easily. Bucky watched the way the corners of Steve’s lips relaxed when he looked at Sam, the slight lessening of tension that gave away his affection towards the new Captain America.

“Look at you, man,” Sam said, smiling so brightly that it pulled its own smile from Steve. “Out of bed, even showering. You look good.”

“Finally took someone’s advice and got out of my head,” Steve murmured, looking down and away, managing not to catch anybody’s eye but Sam’s. Even that was brief. It sent a shiver of unease down Bucky’s back. There was a sense of wrongness in the way Steve avoided prolonged eye contact.

“One day at a time,” Sam said, and Steve nodded, but didn’t get a chance to say more before Sam was standing back as Natasha stepped forward. Instead of speaking, she froze, and instead of continuing to Steve, turned to look at Tony. It was so weird, seeing her hesitate and downright abort an action, that it made Bucky look too, just in time to see Tony nod, and then it was _Tony_ talking. 

“We should catch up over dinner sometime,” Tony offered with a surprisingly even tone. Not his usual, flippant response to everything, but as if he was honestly offering.

When Bucky shifted his gaze back to Steve, he saw him standing still, jaw tense, as if he was about to face debriefing again. Just what had happened between the Avengers? Bucky had been under the impression that the team used to be very close with Steve.

“Get shawarma,” Natasha added, her voice even, but her body was still and stiff. She was an island of hostility among people genuinely glad to see Steve.

Steve’s lips curled into something that tugged at Bucky’s memory, but he couldn’t quite get there.

“Coulson has my information.”

There was an odd hiss that Bucky belatedly realized came from Oracle, then a pop, and Tony’s face plate snapped over his face.

“Hey, how’d she do that?”

“Do what?” Sam asked, looking concerned.

“She… she cut us out! Of _our_ comm system!” Tony was all indignation and reluctant fascination. It had Bucky smirking because he always found that trait of Tony’s adorable; how he would be offended and fascinated at the same time.

“You made her mad,” Steve said and Bucky realized he was leaning to the side, as if there was someone yelling in his left ear. However, he looked more at ease with her yelling at him than he had facing his old friends. It was not what Bucky would have expected. “I’ll have her fix it.” When Steve flinched, Bucky imagined Oracle didn’t like to hear that.

“Whatever,” Tony huffed, and together he and Natasha turned on their heels and walked away, and _now_ Bucky understood. Instead of yelling at Steve, they were making him face Bucky. A little fissure of panic took hold in his chest because… well, _Steve_. There were so many things, so many things left over from their last meeting. So many things Steve had said to him then that still laid heavily on his mind and were the benchmark of how he measured himself. 

But Steve was not perfect, Bucky remembered suddenly. Steve had _left_. He had dropped Bucky like a hot poker, leaving him to deal with his Hydra tail and new memories _alone_. After everything that had happened, Steve had abandoned him, then the Avengers. That, he realized, was why the others all expected Steve to run now, but he wasn’t. He was standing at attention, head still listing to the left, waiting for… Bucky wasn’t sure. Surely Steve knew the others were upset. Why were they leaving him to deal with this anyway? It wasn’t like Bucky mattered to Steve any more, not after all that had happened. The fact Steve had hardly looked at him the entire mission was just confirmation of Bucky’s suspicions; Steve hated him for what had happened.

Sam was in front of him, holding onto Bucky’s shoulder - which made the arm again send belligerent warnings of incoming contact at Bucky - and said sincerely, “We’re right over there if you need us.” Then he was leaving too and it was just Steve and Bucky and Oracle, until Steve quietly pulled the little earbud from his ear and put it in his pocket. He was giving Bucky privacy, because he still didn’t look like he was about to speak, to say _anything_ , and that had Bucky suddenly livid. After twenty years living in each other’s pockets, seventy years apart, and finding each other again, Steve had nothing to say to him? Nothing at all? 

“That it?” Bucky asked, trying hard to control his voice. “Not even a _hello, how are you?_ ” He thought to the mission, where Steve had only spoken to him if absolutely necessary, and then only about the mission. “I’m nothing but a stranger to you now?”

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said softly. “I didn’t think you’d want Oracle to hear your name, is all.”

“My name doesn’t matter to anybody anymore,” Bucky said bitterly. He thought back to all the memories he had recovered, to all the things he and Steve were to each other in the past. They used to be lovers, Bucky was sure he remembered that right, back before Bucky had been drafted, and later, after Steve had found him again. They had had something… complicated when Bucky was the Winter Soldier. It had had a connection though, and Steve had discarded it without a second thought. “Not like there’s anyone left who would even care what my real name is.”

Steve licked his lips, holding back, but he was at least looking at Bucky now. No, not at least. After everything, all their history, Bucky deserved to be talked to.

“And?” Bucky said sharply, the memory of Steve with the exact same expression filtering back through fragmented memories. He had gotten back more than just the memories that the arm had downloaded into his brain, but not all. And… some memories seemed corrupted, twisted with his time in Hydra. Others were too bright, too shiny to be true. Still, he knew that face. “You stand here looking like you’re just waiting for me to start frothing at the mouth and attacking you like some kind of feral dog.” Bucky could feel his lips twisting. “Do you think I’m some kind of rabid animal? Below your dignity to even acknowledge me?” 

There were _things_ , emotions, rolling just under his skin, itching to be let out. Steve was destroying Bucky’s self-control without even trying. 

The arm recalibrated, reacting to his heightened distress. _“Battle mode?”_ it asked, and Bucky forcefully relaxed. As much as it was trying to help, it had too large foothold in his brain. If the arm went into full battle mode, Bucky found his ability to experience emotion properly dropped significantly. 

“No, Bucky, Jesus,” Steve said, eyes widening and finally _reacting_ , taking a step toward him that was aborted just as fast. “I know you’re not. I treated you -” Steve swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. For everything. It’s not enough, but I’m sorry. You’re not an animal, you’re a person and I… I’m sorry I ever treated you otherwise.”

Bucky frowned, feeling taken aback and suddenly confused.

“What?” he asked. “You were the best handler I ever had.” The words slipped out before he had the time to stop them, and he snapped his mouth shut hard enough his teeth clicked together.

Steve flinched like Bucky had punched him, and he backed away. Now he wasn’t looking at Bucky again, face pale and tight. Bucky could feel his heartbeat racing, sudden panic making his hands clammy as he remembered how pale Steve looked on that metal table when Bucky had found him after recovering his memories. Steve had been angry then. So angry at Bucky.

 _“Battle mode?”_ the arm asked again.

“Steve?” he asked, dragging his attention away from the arm, trying to remember that slipping into the quiet, mission state of mind was not the way to deal with people. “Were you hurt during the mission?” He remembered how pale Steve had looked in that Hydra lab. Maybe he was hiding some injury?

A strangled sound left Steve, but then he shook his head and finally looked back at Bucky. Except then his gaze was darting away even as he said, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Now Steve laughed humorlessly, eyes fixing on his feet.

“Okay. I’m fine physically. I’m… I’m going to have to see my therapist after this. So… does that count?”

“I guess,” Bucky said, suddenly losing his wind. “So you are leaving again?”

“Don’t,” Steve said suddenly, sharply. “Don’t say that like you want me to stay.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Bucky snapped back, angry all over again. There was a hot burn high in his chest, lodged in his throat, stinging his eyes. “It’s your life I’m taking over. You’re an Avenger; I’m just a tag along when they need more firepower.”

“Was,” Steve denied immediately, his body snapping to attention all at once with how deep the conviction ran. “ _Was_ an Avenger. And you’re not -” Steve shook his head, looking for words, opening his mouth and then trying again, “You were never -” Then he was looking at Bucky and it was the kid he remembered on the streets with fire in his eyes. “You tell me,” Steve demanded, stepping closer, “that they treat you like that, like you’re just… just a weapon, because if they don’t appreciate you and everything you bring to the table, I’ll -”

“You’ll what?” Bucky demanded as Steve stopped, dizzy and angry, and so very confused. “You’ll _what_ , Steve?”

Left hand curling into a fist, muscles of his shoulders bunching and straining the dark fabric of his stealth suit, Steve said quietly, “Make them listen. You’re not anyone’s weapon.”

Bucky stared at Steve, feeling bitter and hurt because his memories of what Steve had said at that Hydra lab were the clearest. And it made no sense. Steve was implying that Bucky was important, that he mattered, but he hadn’t been able to run far enough away.

“But you called me a weapon,” Bucky said, looking down at his hands, trying not to get angry as Steve contradicted himself every second word.

“I-I know,” Steve said and the pain in his voice made Bucky look up again and Steve was still looking at him, not away. “I didn’t… I said a lot of things back then that I didn’t mean. There were a lot of reasons, but you’re not, Bucky. You’re so much more than that, and I’m so sorry.”

Bucky swallowed, feeling off balance and uncentered. People... People didn’t usually apologise to him so easily.

“But you left,” Bucky said quietly, unable to just let go of it; forget and forgive like it didn’t even matter. 

“Y-yeah,” Steve stammered again. “Of course I did. After what I did… I couldn’t look in a mirror, let alone at you, or anyone else.”

“Why? You were the one that got fucked up the most,” Bucky said, thinking of the how Steve had looked when they parted ways.

Steve winced, then quietly cursed.

“Fuck, I should’ve known… Bucky.” He tentatively stepped closer, like Bucky was the one who was about to run, stopping within reach, “what happened to me was nothing. Not compared… with what happened to you. What I did to you; what they did to you? Bucky, come on. You’re worth so much more than you think you are. If you think what happened to _me_ compares to… to… I hurt you, and I beat you, I… I-I did worse than that. To _you_ , of all people. You were the victim, not me.”

“But you had to,” Bucky said simply, knowing he was missing something in what Steve was saying, but not knowing what. “I would have killed you if you had deviated from expected behavior. And your punishments? They were nothing.” 

Bucky ran his hand through his hair, tugging at the loose strands in frustration as he did. It was so obvious, so why were they even talking about it? Steve had done nothing wrong back when Bucky was The Soldier. Except something like loathing passed across Steve’s face.

“And when I raped you?”

Bucky stared, surprised. He thought back to his time with Steve as his Handler and the things that happened between them. Bucky had manipulated Steve into bed. Was it possible he didn’t remember something from before Hydra? Because Steve had never… Bucky didn’t remember being raped.

“When… When did you do that?” Bucky asked tentatively. He tried imagining it, remembering it, but even if it had happened, he couldn’t find any anger in himself towards Steve.

“Jesus, Bucky,” Steve said, color draining out of his face all over again. “Jesus, you don’t… You didn’t even know… God damn it, James.” And Bucky blinked, surprised by where Steve’s anger was coming from and so suddenly, too. “You might have been trying to seduce me, but it wasn’t like you could say no, was it? You were under orders to do it. And I knew that, and I still…” Steve swallowed as suddenly as he was angry, hard enough it wasn’t normal. “I should never have touched you, but I did,” Bucky stared, wide eyed, as tears swam before Steve’s blue eyes, “I thought I was doing the right thing, but it wasn’t, it never was, and I’m so sorry and it’s not _fucking_ about me, fuck.”

Steve turned away from Bucky, Sam, Nat and Tony standing just out of earshot. For the first time he pulled the domino mask from his face and pressed his fingers against his closed eyelids. He was still within reach, but Bucky wasn’t sure if he should touch.

“Steve,” Bucky said slowly. “I think you are misunderstanding the way Hertz constructed his orders.” Bucky swallowed. “Unlike Pierce or the others, he wasn’t micromanaging me. He was old enough to remember me from the Red Room.” God, it was so hard to admit this, but Bucky could see he had to. “His orders were to discredit you, to make you fall, but the plan,” Bucky stopped, his courage fading as looked at Steve’s bowed back. It took a breath or two to remind himself that, unlike Steve, Bucky deserved the punishment. “I was the one to plan it.”

Steve flinched, swaying away from Bucky, but he nodded and Bucky didn’t understand why until Steve murmured, “No, that makes sense. I wondered how Hertz could know me well enough, could guess how I’d react, but you? No, that makes sense.”

“Steve, I…” Bucky licked his lips, nervous suddenly. “It wasn’t about knowing you. You were easy enough to read, and Natasha forced my hand anyway, by bringing sexuality into play in that train. You gave me all the openings I needed. So if there’s a victim, it wasn’t me.”

Though his gaze was distant, Steve looked at him, and Bucky hated himself for wanting it so much. Then it hardened, fast, and Bucky decided what he really hated was how mercurial Steve was.

“Bucky, you are _not_ a weapon. Not then, not ever. Do you hear me?” Steve’s hand reached for him and then pulled back, and Bucky ached with the loss of something he never even had. “When I tell you it makes sense, I know. You were always brilliant, always so smart, and you can see things…” Steve took a breath through his nose. “Of _course_ it was you, because Hertz was just an idiot who was lucky to have you. Do you understand me?”

Bucky shook his head silently. It made no sense, Steve’s defense of him.

“I know I’m a human,” he blurted out. It would probably sound funny to anybody who overheard, but it had been so much work convincing himself he was more than just a tool. That he was allowed to feel.

“Good,” Steve murmured. He reached out slowly, and touched Bucky. It was a tap, Steve pulling away like Bucky might burn him, and then returning, settling on his flesh wrist. “You were using me, I knew that. Bucky, you had to, I never held that against you, but… can you really tell me that what I did, the way I… touched you… when you couldn’t tell me no wasn’t… ? How can you not hate me for that? I… I can’t…”

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“The only person with the right to call something rape is the victim, right? Their word is final?”

“I… guess?” Steve said, his voice thick and heavy with the tears he was holding back.

“It didn’t feel like rape to me,” Bucky said, trying to sound as confident as possible. “I liked the way you touched me.” A tear slipped from Steve’s eye, down his cheek. “You were making me feel _good_. It was a… rare treat; pleasure wasn’t allowed.”

“Want is not permitted,” Steve whispered, and there were more tears leaving his eyes, and Bucky wasn’t sure if it was good, or bad, but he hadn’t let go of Bucky’s wrist and that was something.

“It wasn’t,” Bucky whispered back, “but I still… I wanted it, and I was terrified I would be punished for it.” Steve’s face crumpled and Bucky quickly said, “Steve, you had to.”

Shaking his head hard, voice hitching, Steve asked, “You don’t hate me?”

“ _Steve_. What you considered punishment… didn’t even register, okay? I could tell you didn’t want to do it, that you were just going through the motions.”

“That doesn’t make it _okay_ ,” Steve’s hand tightened and relaxed. “God, Bucky…”

“If I’m the supposed victim, and I say it’s okay, so it’s okay.”

For a second time, Steve’s face crumpled, but Bucky didn’t get a chance to say anything. He was being pulled toward Steve and folded into his arms. The arm, for once, didn’t protest or warn him, and Bucky realized belatedly that Steve was crying into his shoulder. Not quietly, either. He was sobbing loud enough that Sam, Natasha, and even Tony were looking at them with openly worried expressions.

“I…,” Bucky started, then stopped, feeling lost and a little panicked. He wanted to make things better somehow, make Steve stop crying, and he had no idea how. He shifted his arm, before he remembered it was metal and maybe Steve wouldn’t want that near him. He let the metal arm drop and raised the flesh one, putting in on Steve’s side, very lightly, to test his reaction and felt Steve lean harder on him. 

“I shot you five times,” he said as he felt Steve start crying harder, and Bucky wasn’t helping _at all_. He shifted his hand from Steve’s side, now that he was sure Steve wasn’t going to push him away, and spread his palm over Steve’s back, letting himself feel the breadth and the heat of his old friend’s body. He doubted he could give any comfort to him, but maybe he could show Steve he wasn’t afraid of him.

“I don’t care,” Steve mumbled through his tears, arms tightening about Bucky’s shoulders. 

“The thing is,” Bucky said shakily, “you should. I hurt you.” The admission hurt. He knew it logically, but admitting it out loud was painful all the same. “I planned to hurt you. I shot you in the back.”

The laugh the words got from Steve was not what Bucky expected. 

“Do you know what I thought, when Hertz called me an idiot for thinking you were only a weapon?” Steve asked, and Bucky didn’t answer because he could feel Steve’s lips against his skin. “I thought he was a goddamn idiot, because I always knew that about you. You’ve always been the best, Bucky Barnes. Always.” 

Steve sniffled, and Bucky didn’t know what he was on about, but then he was straightening and holding Bucky’s jaw instead of his shoulders. 

“Of course you did,” Steve said firmly. “You’ve always been my biggest weakness, Bucky, and you’re so damn good at this. You always were. You think I hold that against you?” Steve shook his head and wiped his face on his elbow, before looking back down at him via the inch that separated them. “Of course I don’t. I hold it against the sons of bitches that made you think your only choice was to obey their orders.”

Swallowing thickly, Bucky had to know, “Why did you leave, Steve? And not come back?”

Sniffing again, Steve wiped again at his face and dropped his hands, no longer touching Bucky.

“I hated myself,” Steve answered as if it was that simple. “I couldn’t stand… being me. When I tell you I couldn’t look in a mirror, I mean… I broke every mirror in the house. Still haven’t replaced them all. Couldn’t get out of bed, and it was just… easier? I guess? Pushing everyone away because I… I didn’t go anywhere, Buck.” Steve shrugged a shoulder. “I stayed put, and shoved everyone else as far away as I could.”

“Did it help, going away?” Bucky asked, watching Steve carefully. 

“No,” Steve murmured.

“Why didn’t you come back then?”

“Because,” Steve said quickly, and then started over. “Because I didn’t think it would be better? Because I needed to get better first. Because I thought you’d hate me, and coming back would be selfish if you did. Because I thought you were all better off without me. Because I was afraid.”

“I don't hate you,” Bucky said quietly. “When did I ever give you that impression?”

Steve closed his eyes, but opened them again, and Bucky wondered why he’d stopped running.

“You didn’t, I just hated myself enough for both of us.”

Bucky swallowed, not knowing what to say to that. It wasn’t as if he’d felt only good things towards Steve. There was so much good, but there were bad thoughts, too. Still, it hurt to hear Steve hated himself so much.

Because of him.

“I wanted you to come back,” Bucky admitted, throat tight. “I hoped…” he trailed off, not sure if it was a good moment to admit how much he had wanted for Steve to find him again.

“I’m here,” Steve offered. “If you really want me to stay… I’ll… try. I’m not always… the best, but I’ll try, Bucky.”

“I want you to stay. I’m not perfect, either, but I want you to stay. I always wanted that.”

Steve winced.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t.”

“But you’ll stay now?” Bucky wanted to make sure, needed to hear Steve say it again.

“I,” Bucky stiffened as Steve hesitated, waiting for him to say he’d try, or refuse, or anything else, but he finally just said, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Bucky breathed.

They stared at each other for a long moment and then Steve shifted uncomfortably.

“So, um,” he cleared his throat, “How’s this work?”

“You staying?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah.”

“Uh,” Bucky managed, because he hadn’t thought it through that far. “I think… that we have a lot to talk about,” he said finally.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, smiling at him ruefully, but he was _smiling_ and that wasn’t a little something, “but, see, I have to go?” 

Bucky felt himself go cold.

“Go?”

Steve nodded, and caught Bucky’s flesh wrist again, fingers bruisingly tight. As if he knew what Bucky was thinking. Then again, all the Soldier’s masks had never fooled Steve.

“I have to see my therapist after every mission. And I imagine I have to soothe Oracle’s temper, but after? Or do you want to take some time and… absorb all this?”

“I… no.” Bucky shook his head, afraid that if he let this go, there would be nothing to come back to. “When will you come back? How can I contact you?”

Steve’s smile was slow, but it was, Bucky realized, the first genuine one he’d seen all night.

“Natasha never loses anything. My phone number and address are the same. You can meet me there. There’s a key under the window ledge. Then you can be sure I’m not running because I’ll be home as soon as I’m done.”

Bucky’s mind spun. It was one thing to just talk with Steve again, it was another to be invited into his home. Bucky licked his lips, heart beating rapidly.

“ _Combat mode?_ ” came the unexpected question, and Bucky flinched at how not untimely the request was.

Steve all but recoiled in response, and Bucky panicked, grabbing hard onto Steve’s bicep, trying to stop him from moving away.

“Yes!” he all but yelled at Steve, not knowing how to start explaining that he wasn’t reacting to Steve just then. “I will meet you there.”

“O-okay,” Steve said, eyes wide and frightened, but slowly relaxing. Then he laid his hand on Bucky’s and said, “You gotta let go, first.”

Bucky didn’t really want to let go. He had that nagging feeling that if he did, Steve would disappear again. He watched Steve’s Adam’s apple bob.

“You wanna come with me?”


	11. Chapter 11

It was an awkward fifteen minutes for Steve as he waited for Bucky to tell the others where he was going. Maybe he said why, too, but Steve wasn’t going to eavesdrop. He kept his distance, letting them have their privacy as he wasn’t part of their team, didn’t have any right to intrude if he wasn’t invited, and he hadn’t been. Steve didn’t blame them either. He knew by now that it wasn’t their fault for giving up on him, and it wasn’t his for being unable to function as their friend. 

Finally Bucky came back, his metal arm stretched across his chest. His gaze was mostly on his feet, though it darted up to Steve and down again. It reminded Steve a lot of Oracle, one of the first friends he’d made when he’d gotten back to work a few months ago. There was something strange in the way Bucky moved, but Steve couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

“I like him better after a mission,” Oracle said in his ear. “Less murder and more hottie.”

Steve flushed, looking away from Bucky, unwilling to accept the curl of attraction sitting low in his belly. He had tortured the man and had no right to feel that way about Bucky any more.

“That’s not appropriate,” he told her.

“It isn’t? Because you used to boink?”

“Boink?” Steve repeated, glancing at Bucky to see him watching him curiously. “No, and you know it’s rude to talk to me when Bucky can’t hear you.”

Oracle, being a teenage girl, sighed dramatically. 

“Fiiiine.” A moment later, Bucky started as she said, “Hello again, Bucky. Steve says I can’t be mad at you.”

“Hello?” Bucky said with no little confusion. “Why would you be mad at me?”

“Don’t,” Steve interrupted, hoping to head this off at the pass, but Oracle ignored him completely since she was headstrong and stubborn and never backed down.

“Because you let him be alone, of course.”

“I left him alone?” And _wow_ ; Steve was startled at the way Bucky’s voice dropped rapidly, chilling in a matter of seconds. “I _left_ him?”

“Bucky,” Steve said, trying to stop _him_ now, but this was why he couldn’t be a leader any more, because neither was listening to him.

“Did I stutter?” Oracle said. “People who are in a depressive state like Steve’s cannot be trusted to make the right decisions. You should have found him.”

“So it’s okay to leave me with my mind so scrambled I couldn't even remember what year it was, with most of Hydra chasing me like a dog for months on end. No backup. No intel. No supplies. That was okay? Just leaving me to try and survive on my own?”

Swallowing, Steve looked down as guilt ate at him. A heavy weight settled onto his chest, because he _had_ left Bucky alone to deal with the world. He’d thought it was best, thought he would be safer, better off without Steve, but he could have at least sent someone else to check in on him. He hadn’t done shit.

“You say that like he managed to get out of bed,” Oracle said as calmly as if Bucky hadn’t spoken at all. “Or didn’t almost die, or did anything like a normal, functioning human being.”

There was a silence long enough that Steve steeled himself and chanced a look at Bucky. A deep furrow lined his brow, eyes distant as if he was looking at Oracle herself back in New York. Steve wished he had pockets he could jam his hands into, but all he could do was tug at his sleeves and hope they’d _stop talking_.

“He had plenty of friends,” Bucky finally said, turning around, his back to Steve - broad and tense with anger - and paced the length of the room, away from Steve.

“Because that helped so much,” Oracle said sarcastically. 

“Then maybe tell me what happened since you seem to have all the answers _Oracle_ , because nobody told me what happened, that’s for sure.”

Steve dragged a breath into his lungs, eyes darting about the open space. At some point the Avengers had left, but he didn’t remember when that happened. When he looked at Bucky, waiting for Oracle to speak again, he appeared every bit as ready to fight as he had from the moment Oracle had spoken to him. That was why Steve hadn’t wanted her to do _this_. It wasn’t helping, and he tried to open his mouth to say as much, but it just… didn’t. Whatever signals he was sending to his mouth weren’t processing, and as he realized that, Steve felt the rest of the signs his therapist kept telling him to watch for: tension in his body, difficulty breathing, his heart beating far too fast for him just standing here. He was having a _panic attack_.

_Now_? he thought angrily, not that his body was getting the message that this was not the time or place. Then Oracle drew in a breath and Steve _knew_ whatever she’d say would be so much worse than everything so far, and he just couldn’t listen any more. Hands shaking, he fumbled for the earbud and managed to flick it free, so that it fell to the ground. Steve stumbled away from it, briefly convinced he would be able hear it if he didn’t put distance between them.

“Steve?” Bucky said, voice focused and sharp.

Shaking his head, Steve took another step back because he didn’t want to do this with Bucky here. He didn’t want to do this _period_ , but that probably wasn’t going to be an option, Steve could tell already. A vise was closing in on his lungs, the air dragging in too fast, too sharp, nearly painful in his throat.

“Steve?” Bucky said and then he was there, in front of Steve, arms spread out to his sides, palms up. “Shut up, I’ll deal with this.” Bucky reached into his ear and pulled out his comm. Before taking another step towards Steve he threw it away. “Steve, you’re having a panic attack,” he said in an extremely even tone of voice. “The fact you’re backing away from me probably means you don’t want me touching you,” he continued, all traces of previous anger gone from his voice. “I won’t, but I’m going to stay right here, where you can see me and talk to you.” 

Steve nodded, because that helped. That always helped.

Bucky shifted so that he was directly in front Steve. There was no anger or impatience in his body anymore. He just stood there, his arms still at his sides, open palms tilted towards Steve as if showing him he was unarmed. Harmless. Which would have made Steve laugh if he could because Bucky wasn’t _ever_ harmless.

“You’re safe. You don’t have to do anything but breathe. You don’t have to speak. I would really like you to remember to take a breath in every once in awhile.” Steve inhaled as if it was a command. “And if you feel like it you can even let it out.” Steve did, exhaling and watched the corner of Bucky’s lips twitch. “Order of the actions is kind of non-negotiable, so in first,” Steve did, “out second.” Steve did that, too. “You don’t have to hurry. You are safe here. I can stand guard as long as you need it. We can just chill here, in this nice corner.” 

They were in a corner? Steve glanced about and yeah, at some point they’d gone from the center of the room to a corner. Bucky nodded as Steve took it in. 

“If you feel like you want a change of scenery there is a chair a foot to your left. I won’t mind if you feel like you want to sit in it. As long as you breathe in.” Bucky breathed in hard enough his nostrils moved, and Steve followed his example. “And out. As I said, order of actions is mandatory. Besides, it’s kinda hard to do it the o-”

Before Bucky finished speaking, Steve sat. The chair would have been more comfortable, but it was a bit too far away and he liked the walls at his back. Keeping him safe from… Keeping him safe even if it meant sitting on the cold, concrete floor.

Bucky lurched forward, then checked himself mid-motion, rocking back onto his heels, before returning to a vertical position. It was the first time Bucky had betrayed any tension in his body since he’d begun to talk to Steve, and it was gone as soon as it came. He was again standing loose and relaxed, his voice even, not even a hitch in breathing. Steve wanted to tell Bucky it was okay, he was going to be okay, but he still… _couldn’t_.

“I guess I don’t have a good eye for an attractive resting place,” Bucky said, low and slow. “This corner has some positive attributes. It’s all concrete after all. We can definitely sit here.” 

Bucky folded himself to his knees, going down in a smooth, almost unnatural move that reminded Steve sharply of before, of Bucky, of the Soldier. The high whine that left Steve was something he was only distantly aware of. Yanking his knees up, to his chest, he buried his face in them, blocking the sight. Blocking the memory of the Soldier, of touching him, watching him, wanting him, needing -

“And I think I just did something wrong,” Bucky murmured. “I’m not coming closer,” Bucky said calmly. “I’m not going to touch, but I’m not going away either. I am just going to sit here and talk to you. Remember: breathe in first, breathe out second. I know you like to do things your way, but I guarantee you can not reinvent breathing. You have to follow the established rules of biology too. Breathe in first and breathe out second. Like this. You are doing good. In first; out second.”

Bucky’s voice was so much easier, _better_ , to focus on than the thoughts spinning in Steve’s mind. And he didn’t stop, kept going, kept encouraging Steve to breathe and relax, making it a little humorous so Steve couldn’t be completely embarrassed. Really, Steve couldn’t have said how long they stayed like that, or if anyone else noticed. He didn’t care. Listening to Bucky, to the soft cadence of his voice, was all that mattered.

Finally, after maybe his eighth attempt, Steve opened his mouth and croaked, “Sorry,” without lifting his head.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Bucky said, switching track like it was nothing unusual. “We are just enjoying this nice corner. I think I’m starting to get attached, even. Maybe going to bring a drink or a fern, next time. Or an orchid, I think it could use something colorful to be honest.”

“Fern would really brighten the place up,” Steve managed to joke, heart squeezing because Bucky wasn’t making a big deal out of it. “I still kill flowers, mostly.” 

“I hear there are such things as succulents. Apparently, they grow best when you forget they even exist,” Bucky said idly.

“Might be my thing,” Steve murmured, tentatively lifting his head and pushing his hair out of his face. Idly he realized he needed a haircut.

“I’ll get you one, then.” Bucky nodded. “You can call it Bob.”

“Bob?” Steve asked. “Any reason for that name?”

Bucky pursed his lips. 

“You don’t strike me as the kind to call it Constance.” 

Bucky nodded to himself as if that made sense and Steve laughed, actually laughed, before dropping his head back onto his knees.

“You are so weird,” Steve told his legs, “but you’re not wrong.”

“Black,” Bucky said immediately.

Confused, Steve looked up again.

“What?” 

Bucky smiled. Just one corner of his lips making it up, but a _smile_ , and Steve’s heart fluttered.

“Pot meet kettle.”

“I’m not weird,” Steve huffed. “I’m crazy. We give weird people a bad name.”

Bucky snorted and pointed at him.

“Pot,” he said slowly, then pointed at himself, “Kettle.”

Steve felt his own lips twitch into a smile, and lifted his head again, looking at Bucky over them.

“Thanks.”

“Can you talk about what happened? Or should we talk about something else for a while yet?” Bucky asked, and Steve realized he was still kneeling on the floor. Like he hadn’t moved since Steve had panicked.

“We can try? Kind of…” Steve made himself not look away, but it was with some effort, “can’t control that. Mostly don’t have them, which is why I can do missions, but… Yeah.”

“Do you know what caused the attack?” Bucky asked in that same calm voice, as if he could just stay there for the next day or so, nothing better to do.

Even though he’d known that question was coming, it didn’t make it any easier for Steve to answer.

“Y-yeah,” Steve murmured. “I just… I’m sorry, Bucky. For not being there, or trying to help. I-I should have tried.”

Bucky stared at him, and Steve couldn't read him at all. He wasn’t moving, just sitting, watching, like Steve and the damn corner were the only things in the room.

“It sounds to me like you weren’t exactly in a condition to do it.”

Opening his mouth, Steve went to protest, but then he looked down.

“That’s what my therapist says. I… Still, I should have done something. Sent someone. I shouldn’t have assumed… you’d be okay.” When he looked back up, Bucky still hadn’t budged and it hit him, all at once. “Bucky, you can move.”

Bucky blinked, looking down at himself as if surprised by his position. Then he looked up at Steve again, eyeing him critically.

“After you.”

Making a face, Steve made himself lower his legs, lower his shield. He doubted it was what Bucky meant, but he got the feeling Bucky really wouldn’t move if Steve didn’t and, well, that position didn’t look very comfortable. 

Bucky shifted to brace himself on the floor with the metal arm, then swung his legs about until he was sitting cross-legged. It looked much more comfortable and it eased a bit more of the tension in Steve. He hated the way Bucky had been sitting on his heels as if he was prepared to suffer discomfort for as long as it was necessary.

“Your knees must hurt,” Steve said, trying hard not to feel guilty.

Bucky shrugged.

“If they do, it doesn’t register. Recognizing physical discomfort is something of a work in progress for me.”

“What?” Steve asked, feeling a little queasy at the implication.

Bucky smiled at him again, a quick, crooked thing that briefly made his eyes curl up into gentle half moons.

“The therapist Natasha forced down my throat claims it’s something similar to dissociation and wants me to fight it, but I don’t want to, so we’re stuck.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it, taken aback at the frank admittance. Not to mention the easy delivery, which he knew sometimes surprised the few friends he’d made since… everything. It occurred to him, though, that Bucky was _offering_. Steve’s mind had laid him bare without his permission, but this was putting him and Bucky back on even footing. _This_ was Bucky willingly making himself vulnerable and to ignore it would break the strange trust they were creating. Otherwise, he never would have let his curiosity pry.

“Why don’t you want to… feel your body?” Steve asked. It seemed dangerous, to be on a mission and be incapable of knowing if you were hurt. Then again, maybe it didn’t work that way. The Soldier had seemed capable of both accepting and ignoring tremendous amounts of pain while being aware of his operating efficiency.

Bucky lowered his eyes momentarily, lids hiding the expression in his eyes. 

“My enhancements mean that if something doesn't kill me immediately it probably won’t kill me anyway.” He waved towards Steve. “Like yours. What’s the point, then?” 

“Bucky…” Steve began, because he could see it wasn’t that simple. Or, he assumed he could see. He’d assumed so much with the Soldier, with the man before him, because once upon a time he’d been Steve’s Bucky and he’d known him better than he knew himself. That Bucky? That Bucky would have embraced the ability to dissociate, no matter the consequences, because then no one could hurt him again like Zola had.

Not that his Bucky would have let him say anything about it. This Bucky, too, as he quickly interrupted. 

“When Hydra found me after I fell, I remembered nothing.” Bucky laughed bitterly. “There was so little in my head that there wasn’t enough to use to break me. So they used what I had left. Why the hell would I want such a weakness to come back?”

Steve shook his head slowly because even if he was wrong, he could see he wasn’t going to get many shots at this conversation and… Even if it was wrong, Steve couldn’t stop caring for the man before him. He wanted him to be _happy_. Bucky, any version of him, deserved to be happy. And that laugh? Really not happy.

“It can’t be healthy,” Steve tried, but Bucky just grinned at him, lightning fast.

“My therapist says the same thing,” he agreed, making it clear he wasn’t seeing the problem.

Unable to help himself, Steve rolled his eyes. Okay, so, there was _something_ of his Bucky left in this man because it was clear Bucky’s therapist had it really hard. Like his Bucky, this one used charm and his experience to deflect and turn things around. It was like talking in circles sometimes, or talking to a wall.

“Then maybe you should _listen_ , you stubborn jerk. It’s a pretty simple equation; not healthy equals not good.”

Steve could see the way Bucky’s eyebrows went up before he got ahold of himself and smoothed out the expression. It was still there, that twitch of surprise, and Steve found himself leaning forward. His stomach churned, but he knew he was hooked again. Bucky was like a drug he couldn’t quit and even a _glimpse_ of him was a rush.

“I hear you,” Bucky said, so clearly stalling for time it hurt with how familiar it was.

“Mmhmm,” Steve murmured, letting his tone speak to how unconvinced he was by Bucky’s declaration.

The corner of Bucky’s lips tugged up, flashing Steve a brief grin before sobering up again.

“So? What caused the panic attack? Do you know?”

Steve felt his smile die, dropping his gaze, before forcing it back up. Swallowing hard, he made his mouth say, “I see your deflection and raise you, ‘I already told you.’”

Bucky’s left eyebrow stretched towards his hair, his eyes sharpening on Steve, and Steve knew before Bucky spoke he was about to get called on his bullshit. That was _fair_ , so long as he got to call Bucky on his, too.

“You trying to tell me it just happens without a reason?” Bucky asked with a note of incredulity in his voice. “That there’s no trigger?”

 

“No,” Steve sighed, “but I did tell you.” Bucky’s other eyebrow went up so Steve added, “Kind of. Look, I just… Oracle went at you and I _told_ her not to ‘cause I knew you’d go back at her and I couldn’t… listen to it.” Steve picked invisible lint off his knee. “What I did to you. I should be able to - I did it, I fucked up - but I just… couldn’t.”

Bucky was looking at Steve with dark eyes, watching him with a focus that made Steve uncomfortable and look for more nonexistent lint on his suit.

“I think we need to talk,” Bucky said slowly. 

“That was the plan,” Steve muttered.

“No,” Bucky shook his head, “talk again about the time you were my Handler.”

“Not really sure what else there is to say,” Steve sighed, but he did this with his therapist enough he didn’t stop there. “I hurt you. You don’t… agree, and I… cannot tell you what that means to me. How _much_ it means to me, but I still…”

“See,” Bucky said very quietly as Steve’s voice failed him, “this is what I thought we already established.” Bucky licked his lips, flicking his gaze between Steve and the ground between them. “I liked those memories.” Steve tried to hold still, to not react, but the words made him want to vomit. “I mean… it was just the two of us there and you were such a good Handler. You touched me, and I liked that. You never punished me without reason and even then you just kept up the pretense. You gave me autonomy and pleasure. Honestly? I don’t think I would have taken to the me…” Bucky snapped his mouth shut then, his eyes flickering briefly in a way Steve have recognized as Bucky holding something back even if he hadn’t cut himself off. “I wouldn’t have remembered, or trusted the memories so much if you hadn’t treated me way you did. I didn’t think you saw that time so differently. I thought you must have liked being with me in that cabin, for at least a little while, before…” 

Bucky looked down again and didn’t look up again. 

“I shot you. And brought you back to Hydra like the well-trained dog that I was.”

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Steve made himself leave the safety of his concrete corner to curl his hand in the fabric of Bucky’s combat pants, just above his knee. He watched Bucky’s gaze snap to his hand, like it was the most important thing in the room, and had to swallow again before he could get his voice to work properly.

“I’ll tell you about it,” Steve promised. “About all of it. What was happening with me, if you want me to, but Bucky… I… I _didn’t_ like you,” Steve gripped Bucky harder when he flinched, “I did it, all of it, because I _loved_ you and I thought… I thought it was the only way to help you and I never, not once, blamed you for how you were, or what happened. You shot me, it happened before, I don’t… I don’t care. It wasn’t you.” He found himself flinging out his other arm, trying to make Bucky understand, only half-registering the aborted flinch from Bucky at the sudden movement. “Not whoever you are now, or, or, who you were then. It was them. It wasn’t… They _made_ you.”

Instead of making it better, Steve saw Bucky’s lips turn down, unhappy. 

“But those memories are _important_ to me,” Bucky said, something almost childlike in the confusion lacing his tone. “Me,” he insisted. “Not whatever Hydra made of me.” He turned his head away, swallowing before looking back up at Steve. “And you are now telling me you did it in memory of an old friend of yours that doesn’t even exist anymore?”

“No, I - Shit,” Steve said eloquently, sitting back and releasing Bucky as fast as his hand could open. 

“Did you hate what we had then so much you had to leave your whole life behind?”

Steve stared at Bucky, feeling something that he would only be able to describe as emotional whiplash. Sitting back on his heels, he scrubbed a hand down his face.

“I… I need you to just… listen, okay? And if what I say… If you hate me for it, then okay, but it’s not going to be easy for me to say, so… can you do that? Just listen?”

Bucky nodded, once, and Steve took a breath because he couldn’t run away from this. It wasn’t just his life, and while he didn’t know if the truth would be better - it hadn’t so far - he hoped it would be.

“When we were… When I first found you, I wasn’t looking for… you.” Steve hated admitting that his Bucky was gone as much as he had then. “I wasn’t looking for a friend, either, but a man I loved more than anything. And the things I did to him… to _you_ while trying to keep him… I can’t forgive myself that, but… you remember that last time?” 

Bucky was looking at him, eyes dark and face pale. His jaw was clenched, obviously holding himself back, letting Steve speak. His body was artificially still, waiting, giving Steve the time to speak his mind he’d said he would. He didn’t even nod so Steve had to assume he did.

“That last time, when I… I told you I loved you? I wasn’t talking to him. How I got there wasn’t pretty, but when I said I loved you, that you were loved, I was talking to _you_. Before… I just wanted a piece of him back, you know?” Steve took a shaky breath, holding back his tears because this wasn’t _about_ him. “But that last time? I knew you might never be more than you were then, and I… still loved you.”

When Bucky didn’t move, didn’t twitch, or speak, Steve mumbled, “Um, that’s… that’s it.”

Bucky took a deep breath in and let it out very slowly, very loudly.

“You know what the trigger phrase was, for the buried orders?”

“I’ve guessed,” Steve murmured. “‘I love you’?”

“Yes,” Bucky nodded. “They made sure I wouldn’t remember my orders until you were in too deep to do anything about them,” Bucky swallowed, “but you see, that wasn’t just for you. It was for me, too. To drive home that I was theirs, and that I would know those words were not for me. That there would never be a person that would accept me as I was. They liked reminding me.” Bucky laughed suddenly and Steve felt something come loose in his chest, something that had lodged painfully against his ribcage. “You loved me in that moment, but they made damn sure none of that survived.”

“No,” Steve said sharply. “Bucky, no. I’m not…”

“If we hadn’t stumbled onto you on this mission,” Bucky interrupted sharply, which was good because Steve couldn’t _say_ the words he wouldn’t tell anyone, “we would have never met again. You wanted to stay gone, didn’t you? Because you hated everything I was reminding you of just by the virtue of being alive, of existing at all.”

“No,” Steve said again, but quieter this time, because this was actually easier. “I left? No, I _ran_ , because I couldn’t get far enough away from myself. It had little to do with you, as did me staying away. I don’t think I deserve this,” Steve motioned between them, “you, sitting here, listening to my bullshit. Letting me see… You’re like… I can’t put it in words, but I sit here, and I get to watch you, and it’s everything I ever wanted and I don’t deserve that. My therapist says I punish myself, and staying away from you is a punishment.”

Bucky looked up at him, licking his lips.

“I understand the purpose of punishment.” Steve smiled tightly, because Bucky would, “they are usually there to teach us things.” He was speaking matter of factly of what Steve knew was nothing but torture. “They establish limits to our behavior, enforce correct responses to stimuli, but…” He hesitated, cleared his throat. “With all you have seen of me, why would you make the decision for me?” Steve winced and Bucky leaned forward. “You said you looked for me to get whatever you could have of your lover. You wanted at least closure, right?” Bucky spread his arms. “Why didn’t you consider that I might want that, too?”

“Th-there’s a lot of answers to that,” Steve said nervously, “starting with I’m an asshole, but mostly… it was never actually about you, Bucky.” Bucky’s eyes saddened, but he didn’t turn away. “None of it. If I was… If I was a better person, I could have put you first, but I’m not? It was easier for me to stay away. Easier to deny myself what I wanted, because being around you is too hard. I want too much. You… _clearly_ think I’m a better person than I am, because… because the only time I thought what would be best for you was about two years ago when I thought I should find you to apologize and… and I didn’t even manage that, because I was pretty sure it was too selfish of me to even consider confronting you and asking you to forgive me for raping you.”

“Would you quit using that word?” Bucky growled. “I’ve been raped plenty of times and I fucking know the difference. You didn’t rape me.”

Steve winced again and had to wrap his arms around his stomach to keep from being sick because no one should ever have to say those words.

“Sorry. See?” Steve rolled his eyes to the ceiling, trying to get a damn grip and was still babbling. “Can’t even listen to you now. Maybe the third time will be the charm.”

“I missed you,” Bucky said simply and Steve couldn’t stop himself from looking at him. “The man I knew as my Handler.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” Steve muttered, but Bucky didn’t stop.

“The man I remembered. The man who saw me as a human. Who touched me with care, with focus. Who was fair with me. Who wanted me for my mind, not as a weapon.” Bucky licked his lips again and reached out his hand to touch Steve’s knee. “I missed you,” he repeated, sounding a little lost. “I hate that you remember all that time as something so horrible. I hate that you no longer love me.” 

Steve felt something hot clawing up his throat, dashed his hand over his eyes, and made himself reach for Bucky’s hand. It felt so good, placing his own over it, and he knew he didn’t deserve to feel that, but he was going to listen to his therapist at least once and left it there. Because, if he could get out of his own head for half a second, maybe he could stop hurting Bucky.

“I’m not in love with you, but you’re kind of gonna have to accept I’ll always love you.”

“I do remember, you know,” Bucky said. “That we used to fuck before.”

“That is… _so_ not what we did,” Steve said with a choked laugh. “There’s a lot of that, but that wasn’t what we did.”

“I don’t remember everything, and a lot of what I do is… skewed, corrupted, because when my memories came the first time, there weren’t all that many of them, and instead of wiping me, Hydra decided to just… change the memories into something that agreed with their version of the story. But I teased out enough to know what we did, before the war and during.”

Hesitantly, Steve asked, “Do you want me to tell you?”

Bucky made an odd, half-shrug, half-shake move Steve had never seen before. It was ridiculously charming, and absolutely fascinating. He wondered what other mannerisms Bucky had picked up over the years they’d been apart.

“I don’t need to remember every tiny little detail to know you were never such a saint as everybody is trying to paint you.” Steve smiled, because that they could agree on. “And you sure dipped your wick once you got your body changed by the serum,” he muttered half to himself. “It was a real shock to realise they were teaching kids in school you are some kind of virgin saint or something.”

“Yeah, well it wasn’t like you were arguing with me,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. “You liked my wick plenty.”

Bucky growled under his breath.

“Yeah, me and approximately half the female population on the western side of the US.” Steve blinked. “All over the Western front, and that’s not to mention Margaret fucking Carter.”

“Whoa,” Steve said, sitting up, vaguely remembering Natasha mentioning this once years ago, “I never had sex with Pegs. Not once.”

“Oh, but the rest is true and I’m supposed to believe you never? With those lips, those legs? Come on, Steve. Half the camp heard that pin-up girl say she never knew a guy who could untie a corset and open a bra as fast as you.” Bucky rolled his eyes, his lips turned down. “The whole camp was telling the story for weeks.”

Steve felt himself flush. 

“I got a lot of practice in the USO, helpin’ the girls, but I _never_ touched them. Not like… _that_ , I just had long fingers and it ain’t easy gettin’ into a corset, you know - them hooks - and you can’t twist your elbows right and I _was_ the strongest one there.”

Bucky gave him a pitying look and something new and disgusting settled onto Steve’s skin. God, Bucky thought he was a slut. No, worse. Bucky thought he’d been sleeping around with anything that moved.

“It’s not like you were such a good job of hiding it anyway.” Bucky’s voice was low and kind of rough. “All those months on the road with dancers? All the perfumed letters that were sent to every base you stayed longer than a week at? Besides, you didn’t need to say anything. The girls you rolled couldn’t stop talking about you anyways. You got any idea how many guys ended up crying into a bottle because a nurse they fancied suddenly started chittering to her friends about how ‘nimble’ your fingers are or how ‘strong’ your shoulders are?”

“That ain’t my fault,” Steve insisted, wanting to just crawl out of his skin, scratching at his forearm and falling back, needing to feel the concrete at his back again. “Bucky, I never - You gotta believe me. They were friends, those USO girls and Peggy and a nurse or two ‘cause they heard -”

“You couldn’t keep your eyes off Carter,” Bucky snapped then took a deep breath. “And I got it, okay? Your body was so fucked up for so long girls never gave you a second look.” Steve winced, because Bucky’d never had a problem with his body, or so he’d said. “I get it that you wanted to live a little when you got all big and healthy. I got it. I didn’t say a word, did I? But Carter? I hated her. She was the only one you went back to.”

“She was _pretty_ , Bucky, and she liked me before.” Vaguely Steve waved his hand at himself, but it was a little awkward since he didn’t stop scratching to do it. “No one else did but you. Or I thought. So we talked and yeah, I flirted, no one else…” Steve swallowed and closed his eyes. “I _never_. It’s only ever been you and I’ll keep saying that ‘til I die ‘cause it’s the only damned thing I ever did right.”

“Steve, you don’t have to -”

“I _didn’t_ ,” Steve shouted, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Everybody knew, me… him... whatever - I knew too.”

“Then _everybody_ is a damn idiot and you are, were, whatever, too,” Steve snapped without opening his eyes. “I loved you and yeah, I was friends with girls.” He looked up at Bucky. “And I talked about ‘em and the guys assumed, but what could I say, Bucky? Oh, no, I’m sleeping with the Sergeant? At best we’d both be court martialed. _Peggy_ knew, did you know that? I never told you, but I told her about us. And it’s not like _you_ could flirt with me, but she did and it was nice and… _And_ ,” Steve said, managing to finally feel something that wasn’t guilt and self-disgust, even if it was just anger, “you flirted with everything that had long hair and a slim waist. I ain’t gonna apologize for wanting to try it with someone who saw _me_. Half the USO girls guessed that I wasn’t right, you know? That’s why they asked me to help them get ready, and I liked it, having friends. Didn’t have any. So. So screw you, Bucky Barnes. I get to have friends and - Jesus, I just said that.” Steve snorted. “My therapist will have kittens.”

“You really want me to believe you _never_ had any of those dames throwing themselves at you?” Bucky said, narrowing his eyes. “Not one? Not Peggy? Even the textbooks say you and Peggy -”

“ _Never_ , Bucky,” Steve said as hard as he could. “What part of ‘it’s only been you’ doesn’t make sense?”

“But,” Bucky said, eyebrows drawing together, “Never?”

“Ever,” Steve declared because it was the truth.

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he licked his lips, and Steve really wished he’d stop doing that, and said, “You know, for a moment there, when you were yelling at me, you sounded like the person from my memories.”

“Um,” Steve managed, not sure what to do with that information, “is that good, or bad? And does it mean you believe me?”

Bucky exhaled loudly. 

“I guess you have no reason to lie anymore. It’s been so long now.” He rubbed at his own knee, fingers pressing against the thick cloth of his combat pants. “I believe you,” his voice sounded kind of sad though, as was the way his eyes had pinched at the edges.

“So why do you sound like I’ve kicked your puppy?” Steve asked.

“You sure you want to know? I can tell you won’t like the answer.”

“I wanna know everything about you,” Steve said honestly. “Good or bad, or whatever.”

“If your relationship with him was fucked up, it meant I had a chance at being better than him. But he’ll forever be your golden, perfect, lost love and I will forever be something that makes you feel disgust - towards me, yourself; whatever.”

For a long moment, Steve just had to sit there and stare at Bucky as he processed the words. Tried to accept the meaning, the implied desire. He was embarrassed to admit, later, how long it took. So Steve stared at Bucky, who in turn stared at anywhere _but_ Steve for what felt like ages. It was probably minutes, but time gets funny when there’s only the two of you.

“Bucky…” Steve finally said, but had to stop again because Bucky _couldn’t_ want something with him. It just… wasn’t possible, so Steve changed his course and went with what he could believe. “When I look at you, watch you, I don’t think I’ve been happier. You’re not going to like this part, but I see all these little… bits, you know? Of him? Like right now, you keep plucking at your hem and it’s like… I want to say like he’s not gone, but I came to terms with that in Costa Rica. It’s like that, seeing something I remember, that’s familiar, but not the same.”

“It’s like I’m my own ghost,” Bucky interrupted. “I’m familiar with the feeling.”

“No,” Steve sighed, “this is _good_ , okay? It’s not… It’s not me missing him, or wanting him. It’s just… it’s _nice_ and then I see something new,” Steve mimicked the shoulder-shake thing he’d watched Bucky do, “and I want to see more of that, of _you_ , who you are and… and hear all of it. What you’ve been doing, even the stuff that I know is gonna make my therapist yell at me for asking, but I want it ‘cause… it’s you.”

“Things like what?”

Steve smiled.

“Like where you went after I passed out? How’d you get back on your feet? When’d you meet Natasha? I, um,” Steve rubbed the back of his head, feeling a bit embarrassed, “A friend told me you opened a club? For, you know, people like us. What made you do that? Just… Everything, Bucky. Three years is a lot of time.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut with a clack. A line appeared at each side of his mouth and then disappeared, replaced by narrowing of his eyes, and a furrow of his brow. Both of his shoulders came up, though, and that Steve didn’t recognize, probably meant something, but he didn’t know what.

Sitting forward, Steve let himself leave his corner, and rolled onto a knee before Bucky. 

“See,” Steve murmured, eyes flicking over Bucky’s face, “just now, what I see? You’re mad at me and you’re trying to make sense of what I’m saying and then,” Steve purposefully let his gaze land on Bucky’s shoulders, “you did something new. I want to know what that means. Why your shoulders come up like that.”

Bucky looked startled, wary of Steve’s claim, and it sent a shiver of regret down Steve’s back. Wasn’t there anybody who could read Bucky? Was he really so unused to people seeing through him that it startled him that Steve could see this much? Or had he just pushed too far? 

“I, um,” Steve eased away from Bucky again, sitting back on the concrete, “Sorry.”

“It wasn’t pretty,” Bucky said, as if Steve hadn’t apologized, or said anything strange at all. “What happened to me after Natasha and I separated in that base. Her taking you to saftey, me drawing the Hydra tail away.”

“I’m gonna take a wild guess,” Steve said, spreading his hands, “and say you weren’t fine like she told me.”

“Depends on when you asked?” Bucky said wryly.

“I… think I just asked your name,” Steve admitted. “She said, ‘He got away.’”

“I was kinda okay at first?” Bucky said but he didn’t sound very sure. “It was a mission, to shake the tail, but not too fast. Had to keep them occupied with me while she evac’d you. I’m good on a mission. It wasn’t a problem.” Bucky insisted. “The problems started later on. At some point, somebody with some actual experience must have taken control of the hunt because their focus shifted. They were trying to capture me alive instead of taking me out. They settled for tracking me and taking potshots, just letting me know that I could run, but I could never hide.”

“How’d you get away?” Steve asked, swallowing down his disquiet. He _did_ want to know, even if he was going to have nightmares later.

“I…,” Bucky’s eyes darted to the side as he censored himself. “I knew more about their bases and equipment than anybody expected me to. I stole a helicopter because some of the old security codes still worked. After that I just... ran. As low tech and underground as I could, trying to remain faceless and nameless.”

Biting his lip, Steve watched Bucky continue to worry at his pants’ hem and asked, “When did you meet up with the Avengers?”

“I stumbled on Natasha actually, about… I don't know, maybe six, seven months after the base? Physically, I was in bad shape. Hydra had chased me down to the ground. I was tired, stressed, alone, and still so confused. I think even to this day Natasha thinks I was there to infiltrate the communications centre, like her.”

“Why were you there?” Steve asked, because Bucky definitely seemed to prefer the prompting than telling the whole story on his own. That was all right, Steve kind of liked being involved.

Bucky smiled, a grim little thing that looked incredibly sad. 

“I was there to give up.” Steve felt his heart stop, except he didn’t die, so it must have just been his imagination. “I was tired and afraid. Hurting. I thought they would wipe me again and make all the pain go away. That the nightmares would stop. The…” 

Another sharp clack of teeth, another thing Bucky didn’t want Steve to know.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Steve assured softly.

Bucky shook his head, a stubborn set to his jaw. It seemed that once he started talking he wanted to get it all off his chest. 

“I was tired, and it just seemed like a good idea at the time? I... I’m not a hero. When I was faced with constant fear and pain, I broke.”

“You wanted to go home,” Steve offered gently.

“Yeah,” Bucky said roughly. “I wanted everything to go back to… normal. To what I knew. To orders and routine and the security of knowing what was expected of me.”

“And they wanted you,” Steve said, even though it felt like daggers in his chest, “and I left you behind.”

“I would like for it to be your fault,” Bucky said, and his voice was harsher than ever as he clearly fought a powerful emotion. “I would like to point a finger, cede all responsibility, and say it’s all your fault and I’m innocent, but the state I was in then… Nobody knows what I would have done, even if you were there.”

“Okay,” Steve allowed, feeling a little less shaky, but knowing also he would need more convincing than that in the days to come.

“I met Natasha staking out the base and went off at her like a man possessed,” Bucky continued. ”If I had been in a better shape, I would probably have killed her. Instead we mauled each other so badly she had to drag me away from the stakeout point and we hid in the basement of a building under renovation for three days.”

“Seems that turned out all right,” Steve ventured, “and, um… Bucky, I’m glad you didn’t go back.”

Bucky shook his head.

“I didn’t come back with her.” He grimaced. “I shot her once. She shot me twice. We spent three days trying not to get caught by Hydra that noticed our little romp ten feet from their base, and then agreed not to kill each other right that second. She was angry at me. I was out of my mind. Wasn’t pretty.”

“Bucky,” Steve said quietly, putting emphasis on his name, “I’m glad you didn’t go back.”

“It wasn’t the last time I tried,” Bucky admitted, self loathing thick in his voice. “Something always seemed to go bad anyway. The severe lack of sleep wasn’t helping my planning abilities any, so yay? I was too inept to even give up properly.”

“Bucky,” Steve said, this time sharply. “I’m glad you didn’t go back. I see you ignoring me over there, because you hate that you tried, but I’m… Jesus, you’re _here_. Can that be okay for a minute? Can I be proud of you for that?”

Bucky looked away, suddenly unable to meet Steve’s gaze.

“I knew what I did, what they did to me, and still preferred their orders than having to face what I did. How can you be proud of that? It should have been the least of what I should have done. When you woke up from the ice, you went and saved the world. When I got my memories back? Didn’t even last a few months on my own.”

“Completely different situation,” Steve said flatly, then rolled himself forward again. He needed to stop, being so close, but Bucky was his magnet. Always had been. Tentatively, he reached for Bucky’s chin, and then turned him to face him when he didn’t flinch away. Then, when Bucky turned his head into the touch when Steve withdrew it, Steve reached out again and tucked the long, soft strands of hair behind his ears.

“I’m proud of you,” Steve said again. “You were alone, no one with you. I had people. I had something familiar, and even then all I wanted was to go home. You didn’t, Bucky. And you try to tell me it wasn’t the hardest thing you’ve ever done, staying away, I’ll call you a liar. So,” he said slowly, leaving his hand cupped about the side of Bucky’s head because the man had leaned into him like a cat wanting a scratch and it felt so good to touch him again, “I’m proud of you.”

Bucky closed his eyes, the frown still etched deeply into his forehead, but the tension in his jaw was lessening by the second.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Bucky began without opening his eyes, “the memories I had were disjointed. I couldn’t separate the ones from Hydra from the ones of before. The lack of sleep was only making me hallucinate, making me more confused. I got it into my head that drugs could surely help.”

Steve cringed, knowing how hard it was to find drugs that actually worked on them. Any street drugs would make them sick rather than give them any kind of high. Life would be a lot easier if they could just be allowed to forget for a little while.

“Didn’t work?” Steve prompted gently, letting his thumb trace the edge of Bucky’s ear.

Bucky shook his head, a wry smile at the corners of his lips. 

“I either made myself sicker than I already was from the insomnia, or it did nothing. I was a sorry sight probably.”

“But you found something that helped,” Steve said, because Bucky had to have, or he _would_ have gone back.

Bucky opened his eyes and pulled back a little, away from Steve’s touch, and looked Steve in the eyes again. Though he didn’t want to, Steve dropped his hand, understanding Bucky didn’t want it. It left his hand tingling, though, wanting to feel Bucky against his skin again, even for another second.

“Sex.”

“Oh,” Steve managed to say, feeling so many… _things_ at once, he felt dizzy with it.

“The state I was in, basically the only way I could get access to any was hookers.” Steve was aware enough to see how Bucky was watching him carefully. “Prostitutes really don’t care who you are as long as you pay. They did start to charge me less after I started showering regularly again.” Steve snorted, amused despite himself, “so that was the start of a new routine for me. Get a room, shower, get clothes, find somebody to steal money from, hire a girl or a boy. Turned out, I could sleep a few hours after. After a while, my head started to get better. Turns out humans do need sleep to function correctly.”

“Turned out you were human,” Steve murmured because Bucky was waiting for him to say something, watching him like a hawk, and he wouldn’t let Bucky down.

“Imagine my surprise,” Bucky said, but the corners of his lips twitched up momentarily. “Then things happened and I found myself with people coming to me for protection. mostly the whores. They knew I paid well as long as they kept quiet about what they saw or heard from me. I was also scarier than any of the pimps they worked for. When things went to shit, they usually ended up at my doorstep one way or the other.” 

God, but Steve wanted to know what those things were, but he didn’t ask. If Bucky wanted to tell him, he would. Steve couldn’t ask for anything more. This was already… so much more than he’d hoped was possible.

“I needed to find some place safe for them, and I started thinking about some kind of business,” Bucky was still watching Steve, eyes fixed on Steve’s face. His look wasn’t particularly one Steve wanted, but it was intense. It was as if Steve was somehow the judge and jury here, given the right to pass sentence on Bucky’s choices. “That was when Natasha found me again.” There was a change to Bucky’s tone then. It was wry, but with an undercurrent of humor this time. 

Steve groaned, “Don’t tell me…”

Bucky flashed a lightning quick grin at him. 

“I shot her; she shot me. We had tea while a retired nurse pulled the bullets out and stitched us up.”

 

Laughing, Steve sat back and rubbed his jaw. 

“Okay,” he said, “and of course this ended with you as an Avenger. No,” he added when the sparkle in Bucky’s eyes vanished, “not like that. I mean, it suits you.”

“Originally, Natasha only came for intel on Hydra. Nobody at the tower was happy to see me,” Steve grimaced, knowing why that was, “but half my memories come to me when triggered by specific things. I can’t just write it up. It’s not linear. My neural pathways were damaged too often and my brain created alternative ways of storing memories.”

“You don’t have to justify anything to me,” Steve reminded Bucky. “It works how it works; that’s okay.”

“My point is, they weren’t happy having me there because they thought it was my fault you left them.”

“Yeah,” Steve murmured, “I’m sorry, Buck.”

Bucky shrugged. 

“Not your fault what other people do.”

“Kind of was,” Steve argued, “but I’ll tell you about that some other time. Don’t stop now.”

“Not much more to tell. I was looking after a number of people that multiplied whenever I took my eyes off of them long enough, and I had to put them somewhere halfway safe. I beat some pimps half to death to make sure they wouldn’t come after the girls again, but it was constantly something with them. It wasn’t feasible for me to run all over town to put out fires, so I decided to start the club and hire them all there. My reputation is clear enough; you fuck with my workers and I will make you wish I had killed you. So now I just let them run the place and hope they don't die in the process, because God knows they get into trouble.”

Steve didn’t point out it would make it easier to get sex, keeping that jealousy tucked away in his heart where it could eat at him later. “Yeah, keeps you on your toes,” Steve teased instead. “Can’t tell _me_ you don’t like it.”

Bucky smiled at him then, wide and brilliant, and suddenly happy. It made it hard to breathe, hard to do more than stare because he was still so damned beautiful.

“It’s music, dancing, _and_ booze! I love it.”

“Oh, of course, your favorites,” Steve managed through his daze.

Bucky blinked.

“I keep forgetting,” he mused, “that you also knew me before. I know so little about you now. What happened to you? Who is that rude shithead on the comms? How did you know I own a club?”

“Oh fuck,” Steve blurted, “I forgot about Oracle.” 

He scrambled forward, but Bucky grabbed his arm, holding him in place. 

“No way; you’re talking to me. You don’t get to run.”


	12. Chapter 12

“No way; you’re talking to me,” Bucky said firmly, tightening his hold on Steve’s arm in case he tried to bolt. “You don’t get to run.”

To Bucky’s surprise, Steve didn’t even try to break his hold.

“I have to tell her I’m okay,” Steve said, meeting and holding his gaze.

“She’ll have figured it out,” Bucky said, feeling his anger at this Oracle grow when she could pull Steve away and Bucky had to fight for his attention. 

“I-” Steve said, then his eyes flicked over Bucky’s face and he relaxed in Bucky’s grip, “Okay.”

“Why do you worry about a comm tech so much?” Bucky prodded. He didn’t like that girl at all, but was familiar with S.H.I.E.L.D. enough to know they hired all sorts.

Steve huffed, but smiled at him.

“She’s not _just_ a comm tech,” he said. “She’s my… I don’t know how to explain it better than to say she is for me what JARVIS is for Tony.”

“It’s FRIDAY now,” Bucky said without thinking.

“O-oh,” Steve said, pressing his lips together and looking away to gather himself before continuing. “Um, FRIDAY then. I, um, found her? I guess? Makes her sound like a puppy. I was on a mission and she had hacked the facility, about six months back. We were after the same people and she walked me through the place. Pointed me at the _actual_ bad guys. After, when I found how she was living… I found her a place to stay near mine and we… work together. Technically, I’m her guardian.” Steve sighed in exasperation. “In reality she’s a pain in the ass, but no one is better at what she does.”

“So she’s important to you?” Bucky asked, unhappy with the knowledge. There were plenty of talented techs around, and not all of them so abrasive.

“Yeah,” Steve said with a soft look that suggested he knew exactly what Bucky was thinking. “I’m really sorry she went at you like that. She’s not… the best with people, too protective, and doesn’t understand personal boundaries, but she’s important. I’d like you to meet her, if you think you… can.” 

Steve was guarded and Bucky wasn’t sure how he should be reading him. Was Steve merely apprehensive about introducing Oracle to Bucky? Or was there something more sinister behind the way Steve hedged? Then again, maybe there was nothing and he was being overly paranoid like his therapist claimed.

“The way she spoke indicated she had full knowledge of what happened between you and me. She actually knew more than I did.” Bucky made an effort to not sound accusing, to gentle his body language. He did not want to fight right now. “You told her things you never told me, even if they weren’t about me.”

“No,” Steve said quickly. “I told my _therapist_. When I didn’t tell Oracle what happened between me and the Avengers, she thought she’d just go find out and hacked the records. I’ve…” Steve’s lips pressed hard together and he spoke slowly, still angry then, “spoken to her about it. It’s still a bit of a struggle, and… and I’m sorry it left you vulnerable. She just doesn’t understand privacy. After her mom committed suicide, she… didn’t have any. Doesn’t make it right, but I hope you can understand.”

Bucky watched Steve’s body language, seeing the way he hunched his shoulders just a tiny bit. He was unhappy, bracing himself for a metaphorical hit. Perhaps even a literal one; Bucky _had_ grabbed him pretty roughly.

“I know what lack of privacy means,” Bucky said, “and if she doesn't respect my privacy I will not let it slide. Just because she is young, doesn’t mean she can be absolved of consequences.”

“No,” Steve said stiffly, not making eye contact anymore, “it doesn’t. I’m sorry. I’ll talk to her again.”

Bucky shook his head.

“Don’t apologize for her. Better tell me what happened to you before the mission you met her at. You said it was only six months ago. What happened earlier?”

Steve let out a breath, then focused on the ground. The expression on his face went from stiff and angry, to stiff and distant. 

“After Natasha got me home… No, that’s not where I need to start. I didn’t mean to survive that last battle, you know? I meant for it to be over there, last hurrah, and then I woke up, _again_ , and… I really didn’t want to. It all kind of just… went downhill from there. Went home, broke every mirror on my floor, then yelled at Natasha when she came in and tried to clean up. That was… not my finest moment.”

Steve still wasn’t looking at him then, shame in every line of his body. Bucky wanted to help, but didn’t know how.

“So she got Sam and he made me clean up, then go to bed. When I then didn’t leave bed for a week they were back and I… I just wanted to be left alone. I had it in my head that everything that had happened, had happened because I cared about people and now these two? These to people I loved wouldn’t just… let me go. I didn’t want to be there in the first place - you know, alive - and they wouldn’t let me go. So I… moved out.” Steve let out a long breath. “Went back to Brooklyn, to torture myself - it’s nothing at all the same - and stopped taking calls, or answering the door. Tony was actually the first one to break in. Busted in my balcony doors, took one look at the place and…”

Steve smiled thinly at nothing. Bucky watched him, his body language so unsure, so… sad, and couldn’t quite compare this Steve with the one he remembered. Any of the ones he remembered.

“I hadn’t cleaned in a long time. Didn’t see a point. I was just waiting. My therapist says I was waiting to die, but I’m not sure I _can_ , and that’s not really a point she can wrap her head around.”

Bucky nodded. 

“I know how that feels, trying to explain to a normal human being just how the serum changed you. One of the reasons I flake at my own sessions.”

Finally Steve looked at him and smiled; a tiny thing, there and gone.

“So it makes sense to you? I was just waiting. Not for anything, because I don’t think I can die, but not… going anywhere. Just,” Steve motioned with his hand, gesturing outward, “not caring. When I could care, I hated myself, but most of the time there was nothing. Just this apathy. I knew I needed to clean, or shower, or check in and I just didn’t want to. Or it was too hard, or… it’s hard to explain. I was numb. It wasn’t so bad, then.”

Bucky was struck by the similarities of their situation. He knew the apathy, the numbness. He had spent a better half of a century being very, very numb to everything. He had been so used to that feeling, he actively looked for it to come back. He thought it was only him though, his own fucked-up head. To hear Steve say the same thing, describe a life so bleak that it numbed you down to your bones, shook him to the core.

“When it really got bad was when Sam and Natasha tried to stage some kind of intervention. I don’t… remember a lot of what I said,” Steve admitted with no little reluctance, “but… Bucky… Natasha was crying when she left, and Sam… I gave him the shield. I remember that much. I told him that someone who was worthy should have it, that… people needed that symbol, and he took it… and they didn’t come back. Well, they didn’t force their way in, anyway.”

“ _Combat mode_?” the arm asked as Steve wrapped his arms around his stomach, curling forward. Bucky wanted to comfort Steve, but he also needed to relax and convince his stubborn fucking arm and that just because his heartbeat was all over the place didn’t mean he was about to get murdered. 

‘No,’ he thought as hard as he could at the arm. ‘Stop it’. 

“So, then it was _really_ bad. I lost the numbness, the waiting. I just wanted it to be over. All of it. When I could sleep, I dreamt of…” Steve made a face. “You. I didn’t sleep much though.”

“Which me?” Bucky asked, perversely curious which incarnation of him could cause so much damage.

Steve snorted, but it didn’t sound amused.

“All three of you,” Steve said darkly, “but mostly that last night. Mostly…” Steve took a deep breath. “Mostly that.”

Bucky was careful when he raised his metal hand to Steve, catching his other arm and making Steve stay in place, stay close. From the look of surprise on his face, Steve didn’t seem to have noticed he was leaning away.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, making Steve look at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember earlier. I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder.”

“Don’t,” Steve said shakily, “Bucky, it’s not your fault, and you did. You… you’re _here_ aren’t you? Know where I’d be, if you hadn’t? Where we’d be? They wanted the matching set.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed roughly. “They always did want you to be theirs.”

“And I’m not because of _you_.”

“Don’t,” Bucky said sharply. “Don’t assign values to me that were not there. If it wasn’t for me, you would never have had two holes in your lungs and your head would be screwed on straight enough that you would have never been in that situation, much less have needed to get out of it.”

Steve snorted again, but he was still meeting Bucky’s gaze and maybe that meant something.

“Bucky,” Steve said slowly, “you actually think, that if they hadn’t sent _you_ , they woulda just let me walk away? It just _happened_ to be you.”

“If it hadn’t been the ghost of your old lover staring you in the face, you would have never trusted me. You wouldn’t have let the situation go that far,” Bucky insisted. His memories might be incomplete, but he knew that Steve was an accomplished and level-headed tactician.

“Then they would have found something else, or tried something else.” Steve reached up quickly and pressed his hand to Bucky’s face. “Sooner or later, Bucky, my number would have come up, just like it did, because I’m _not_ perfect and they would have won. Instead, you were there, and yeah, it was fucked up. Really goddamn fucked up, but there’s two things I know happened right: I’m not still _there_ and neither are you.”

Bucky tried to smile at Steve, but suspected his smile wasn’t all that successful.

“To be fair, I would probably be in cold storage by now.”

“Fine,” Steve huffed, and Bucky smiled for real now because he liked the sound Steve made when wound up, “then you’re not in cold storage. Still a win to me.”

“I don’t know, the latest series of the freezers was an all-inclusive model. Even had a little window in front and…”

“Oh, shut up,” Steve laughed, shoving Bucky away with the hand on his face. Some old instinct had him sticking out his tongue and licking at that hand as he went, and Steve let out a startled, choked laugh, eyes suddenly going bright. “You’re such a jerk, I swear to god.”

“It’s hard work,” Bucky said seriously, “but somebody’s gotta do it.”

Steve gave him a wry smile.

“Well, you’re perfect for the job. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

There was something about the way Steve was looking at him, sad and fond. There was something about the words themselves, familiar in his mouth while tender in Steve’s. Like they’d both said it before, but Bucky didn’t remember, and Steve… Steve was still staring at him the same way. The way you’d look at a picture of someone you loved after they’d passed. Steve had said watching Bucky was something familiar, but not the same. As if Bucky now wasn’t as different as he’d thought he’d become, wasn’t as removed from Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes as he’d told himself he was.

He shifted, wishing he was standing, pacing. He didn’t like the realisation that he was his own ghost, that Steve could never look at him without seeing what he’d lost. He had worked hard to create himself anew, to be his own person. He didn’t go to museums, didn’t look at books about James Buchanan Barnes. He didn’t try to fill a dead man’s shoes. Yet, he was doing it without even knowing.

“So,” Bucky cleared his throat and Steve’s gaze sharpened, definitely seeing more than Bucky wanted him to, “what changed? How’d you… get out of that?”

For a moment, Steve looked like he wasn’t going to answer, was going to pursue what he’d seen and Bucky held his breath.

“Nothing changed,” Steve said and Bucky exhaled slowly. “One night I was thinking about how maybe a volcano could do the job and realized that what Sam said could, maybe be true.”

“What did Sam say?” Bucky asked, only realising he shouldn’t have interrupted after the fact.

Steve smiled distantly. 

“He said that maybe if I had someone to help me, it could get better. That I didn’t have to be like this. And I still didn’t think he was right, you understand, I just thought… Well, I can give it a try, and if he was wrong, I can always find a volcano. What did I have to lose?”

Bucky didn’t smile, not when he knew, probably better than any other person than Steve, how devastating it was to pray for death and know, deep down in his bones, that death would not be coming. That there was no escape, to relief; that the hell never ended. Steve had known that he could get help, that there was a chance for something better, and that was such a huge thing. Bucky had never let himself believe it until he had it.

“I didn’t think it would work,” Steve said again, “but I was only a little more sure about the volcano.” Almost absently he asked, “Do you think a volcano would work?”

“Probably,” Bucky said faintly, “but there’s a risk that if a part of flesh survived the rest of the body could grow back. And you are valuable, so if pieces were still missing I bet some enterprising soul would fill in the missing pieces with some tech and where would you be then?”

Steve sighed.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured. Look at that, evil people managing something good.” Steve smiled weakly and shook his head. “As is probably clear, I found a therapist and it’s helping. I still have bad moments,” a light blush bloomed across Steve’s cheeks, “obviously, but I’ve managed to make friends and basically function as a person more often than I don’t.”

“That’s it?” Bucky blurted when Steve stopped like the story was over. “You just made some friends and went on some missions? Why did you come back to a job you already hated?”

Tilting his head to the side, Steve frowned thoughtfully as he answered. 

“I didn’t hate the job,” he said slowly. “I distrusted it, but it wasn’t the job…” Steve blew out a breath. “Okay, that’s really complicated. I was only cleared for work nine months ago and I only realized I still wanted to _do_ the work a few before that, but it’s not really an interesting story. My therapist said I needed something to do every day, a routine, something structured and suggested I get a job, but… I’ve only ever done this. Okay, there was that grocer job back in the Thirties, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a job I can even get these days. It kind of… freaked her out, I think, when I suggested talking to Coulson about a job, but… I talked her into it. I’m good at this, you know? And I make sure I’m kept in check, that my past issues can affect me as little as possible, and I don’t do anything I know I can’t handle. I like it… I,” Steve flushed harder and stared at the ground, for some reason sounding reluctant when he said, “I think I make a difference.” 

Bucky scowled and didn’t bother to hide it.

“What’s complicated about that?”

Steve opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“You’re still mad at me. Why are you mad at me?”

Bucky twisted his fingers together. 

“It feels like you don’t want me to know anything about your life now. Is it so that I won’t be able to find you?”

“No, Bucky,” Steve said quickly, leaning into the hands Bucky had holding him in place. “I meant what I said. Coulson has my information, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know. It’s just… kind of boring. I like it that way, but my life is boring.”

“Steve,” Bucky said slowly, “I don’t know who Coulson is.”

“Oh,” Steve blinked. “Well, I did tell you Natasha knows? You cou - fuck it, I can just tell you where I live? Want my phone number?”

Bucky smiled. Yes, he wanted that very much.

“Yes,” he said decisively. “I want.”

“Want… what?” Steve said slowly.

“Everything.”

“Okay,” Steve said, slow and confused, like he wasn’t sure why Bucky would want that. Then he was rattling off his address and phone number, letting Bucky commit it to memory so he really could find Steve whenever he wanted. He was clearly uncomfortable with Bucky’s regard, but he would have to deal with it anyway, because Bucky had had three years to build an image of Steve in head, working with fragments of memory and what he learned from people. This Steve, the flesh and blood one, was very different from who he thought Steve was.

“Um, I guess,” Steve stopped again and this time Bucky knew why. They both heard his stomach growl. “C-can we finish over some food? And can I change? I kind of hate the suit.”

“Stark flew me here,” Bucky answered. “How are you getting home?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. jet waiting for me,” Steve answered. “They could take another passenger…”

“Okay, then where?” Bucky said, uncrossing his legs and climbing to his feet.

“I guess…” Steve said slowly, also standing, “my place? I can change and cook? But, um,” Steve looked more uncomfortable than ever, “Oracle’s there.”

“Lead the way.”

Steve blinked, then slowly smiled at Bucky. Like Bucky had done something special or amazing, not just agreed to come home with Steve. Motioning, Steve led him outside, across the field that separated the compound from the next building, to where a quinjet was waiting in the parking lot like an overgrown crow just perched there to wait out a sudden rain. 

“Who’s he?” the pilot asked as they climbed on board, but he didn’t even turn around to do so, so Bucky didn’t think he was about to be kicked off.

“Winter Soldier,” Steve said, then, “Avenger.”

Bucky grimaced, still feeling strange when called that in public. It felt more familiar to be called ex-Hydra assassin than an Avenger.

“Home, Nomad?” the co-pilot asked without even batting an eyelid.

This time Bucky didn’t flinch at the name. It wasn’t that he disliked it, quite the opposite. He had missed his last Handler.

“Please,” Steve said politely.

The ramp to the quinjet started to go up, and Steve nodded Bucky towards one of the seats in the back. With the pilots around, Bucky wasn’t expecting Steve to keep talking, but he was glad he took the seat next to the one Bucky chose for himself. They weren’t touching, but he could feel Nomad’s furnace-like heat and it was a comfort he’d forgotten he enjoyed.

“I paint in the park on Wednesdays,” Steve said out of the blue. When Bucky snapped his head to look at him, Steve smiled almost shyly. “You said everything.”

“And I meant it,” Bucky confirmed. “You sleeping with anybody?”

The color of Steve’s face went from a little pink to shiny red.

“You really don’t get the meaning of ‘you being it’, huh?”

“It’s been three years, and as much as I understood it, you never intended -”

“Bucky,” Steve interrupted. “I’ve only ever slept with you.”

Bucky frowned. 

“I thought you meant, the... you know, before.”

“ _Ever_ ,” Steve said pointedly, having managed to get redder than he had already.

Bucky looked at Steve’s face, his flush that ran down his neck and then let himself keep looking. He dropped his gaze over the broad chest, flat stomach to the slim thighs pressing against the armored cloth of his combat outfit.

“Why would you deny yourself like that? If you didn’t intend to come back…”

“I don’t know if I did. We’ve been talking about it a lot. I want to think I would have, but that’s… not…” Steve shifted until he was facing Bucky instead of just sitting by him. “Why in the world are you asking me about that?”

Bucky blinked, wasn't it clear he still wanted Steve?

“I told you I remembered we used to sleep with each other. And that I liked what we did in the cabin, before… well, before. I want to know if there’s a chance we can come back to it.”

The way Steve swallowed and leaned away from him almost seemed to answer the question. Except Steve then asked, “You actually want that?”

Bucky blinked, directing his gaze back to Steve’s face.

“I do,” Bucky said slowly and clearly. “I told you I always liked you touching me.”

Blue eyes flicked about his face and Steve’s lips turned down at the edges.

“Anyone who cared about you… No,” Steve took a breath and looked down, clasping his hands tightly in his lap. “I haven’t had sex this last… year because I don’t think I should be touching anyone.”

“But Steve,” Bucky shifted to at least try and face Steve better, “When I told you, you didn’t rape me, I was telling the truth. It didn't feel that way to me, it didn't cause me pain or fear and whatever else you might think it was to me. It was touch and contact and I could tell you were careful with me.” Bucky swallowed. “I needed it, I didn't even know how much.”

“I-I still see your blood on my hands,” Steve whispered. “I hear that sound you made when I beat you. I… I feel your skin under my hands and against my own and I just…” 

Steve took a deep breath and Bucky rushed in with, “And I shot you. I wasn’t just playing around. I shot to make sure you stayed down. First shot collapsed your lung; you were helpless by then. But I shot you again. I remember that. I also remember that you weren’t keeping track of my movements because I lured you into false sense of security.”

Steve’s snort had Bucky pausing.

“I didn’t keep track of your movements because when I tried, I’d ended up beating you.”

“I live with the guilt of doing that to you, every day, but you know what? I refuse to let that memory color everything else. I liked you touching me. I was grateful for it. I don’t want to forget it.”

“Maybe,” Steve said, lifting his head and taking a shaky breath, and Bucky watched him purposefully pull his hands from each other, “after I tell you everything you want to know, you can tell me about it. What it was like for you. Maybe that’ll… help me… understand.”

“You were the prettiest handler I ever had,” Bucky said and watched Steve blush again. “A little bumbling, but very pretty.”

“Never had nothin’ on you,” Steve mumbled and his eyes were bright again in that way Bucky wished he understood.

“And I really loved the -”

“Do you remember?” Steve said abruptly, “the waterfall?”

Bucky started, surprised not only by Steve interrupting, but by the topic. Still, he nodded and watched Steve’s smile light up his whole face.

“That’s my favorite memory. The good one. Showing me that didn’t fall into Hertz’s plans, or yours. You just… took me to see something beautiful. It made me hold out longer, because it gave me hope. Looking back, I think it would have been better if you hadn’t, because it… I would have fallen sooner, if you hadn’t, but you did. And I think about it a lot. That moment.”

“You were sad a lot.” Bucky said, remembering his own thoughts from three years ago, the way Nomad’s body language had always struck him as so very _sad_.

“Yeah,” Steve murmured, inching closer to Bucky, “but that’s the thing, Buck. My guy? He didn’t do that. Hertz’s soldier? He didn’t do that. You did. And… Thanks.”

It wasn’t completely true, the Soldier could pretend love and affection, could pretend to see beauty in the world, but the thing was, Bucky _had_ done it just to make Nomad feel better. He could never be sure how far the buried memories went. In that moment, he had wanted though. He had wanted for that moment to have been only for Steve. Just to make him look less sad. Just that.

“I wanted you to be happy.”

Steve’s smile turned into something warm and light.

“I like it better when you smile, too.” Playfully, he squinted at Bucky. “Not that you make it easy to see any more.”

Bucky smiled at Steve, knowing it was a little forced, but it wasn’t like he was used to smiling anymore.

“Wow, look at that,” Steve said, whistling. “You can still do it. Still the best smile on the East Coast, too. So,” Steve nudged Bucky’s arm with his own, “what d’you wanna know besides who I’m not sleeping with?”

“You mentioned you paint,” Bucky started slowly. “Do you paint people?”

“Sometimes,” Steve bobbed his head in a nod. “My therapist talked me into going to a few art classes. The painting one; we all got real close. When the class was over, we kept meeting up, every week on Wednesday, so long as it’s not raining. We pick a subject, and we… paint. When it gets dark, we get dinner and talk about… nothing? Everything? It’s… fun.”

“Would you want to paint me?”

 

“Yes,” Steve said so quickly Bucky felt his lips twitch. “I mean, um, if you don’t mind.”  
Bucky could feel his own lips quirking up slowly and tilted his body towards Steve even more.

“How would you like to have me, then?”

“Oh my god, Bucky,” Steve flushed again and covered his face with his hand. “That line is not gonna work now that I actually paint.”

“I used it before?” Bucky asked, feeling disappointed as hell. It was such a great opening and he had failed miserably.

“Yeah,” Steve said, peeking at him from between his fingers like Bucky remembered in some of his shinier memories when he was too embarrassed by Bucky’s flirting to really look at him. “I would complain that I would learn to paint if I could just see the colors right and you would say, ‘If I was your model, how would you want me?’ Though,” Steve hid back behind his hand, “it did work more often than not.”

“So, it’s no longer working?” Bucky asked, raising a single eyebrow, trying not to dwell on the fact that even his lines weren’t really his.

Steve peeked at him again and whatever he saw in Bucky had him dropping his hand. Though he was still hesitant when he did it, he reached for Bucky without the stop-motion action he’d been using before. Bucky could only stare, because Steve had wrapped his fingers around Bucky’s metal wrist. He twitched as he felt the arm ripple and watched the wide metal plates separate into small, flexible pieces; like dragon scales, tiny and shimmering, soft as skin. Staring, stunned that it had changed modes without asking him, Bucky’s mouth dropped. It always asked. _Always_.

‘What the hell?’ he sent at the arm, focusing completely on it.

“ _Coupling mode_ ,” the arm sent back, sounding equally confused. As if it had no idea why Bucky would be surprised and he was the one acting out of character.

“I always liked it when it did that,” Steve muttered and Bucky shuddered, because his fingertips were trailing up Bucky’s wrist, along the inside of his forearm to his elbow and back.

Bucky opened his mouth, not sure what to say. “Uh,” was all he managed, but Steve smiled as if it had been a whole sentence. 

“You can feel it, can’t you? When it’s like this?” Steve said, fingers returning to Bucky’s wrist and curling about him again. Holding, not caressing, and Bucky missed the touch already.

“Yeah,” Bucky murmured, forcing his gaze up from the arm to Steve, but he was still just smiling that little smile and looking at his arm. “There are… different modes,” he confessed. “It shouldn’t change them like this, though.”

“Oh,” Steve swallowed and pulled his hand way. “Sorry. Um, what was that mode?”

Bucky watched Steve, still a bit stunned, and he blamed that for the reason he blurted out the truth. “Sex.” 

“O-oh, it… it did that a lot when we were… Oh.”

Bucky, who had been casting surprised looks at his own damn arm, switched focus to Steve. 

“I told you I wanted you. Then and now.” Bucky twisted his arm, reaching out so that he could wrap his fingers around Steve’s wrist. “I would like you touch me now.”

“T-touch you?” Steve repeated.

Bucky rolled his eyes, because while Nomad was smart, he was still dense as hell. Letting the corners of his lips turn up, Bucky twisted to brace one knee on the seat. Gripping the armrest of Steve’s chair, he kept himself balanced so the plane’s movement couldn’t toss him to the ground.

“Yes,” Bucky murmured. “Touch me, however you want. Wherever you want.” As he was talking, he leaned into Steve. “Touch,” his lips hovered a hairsbreadth from Steve’s as he whispered, “me.” 

Breaching that last distance, he pressed his lips to Steve’s. He did it carefully, slowly, but firmly enough to let Steve know that he didn’t have any doubts about what was happening. Just his lips for now, just rubbing them over Steve’s. A quiet, whimpering noise left Steve, his eyes so wide and round Bucky didn’t think he could hide a thing. Fear, want, longing, grief, all of it there in his blue eyes. Yet he didn’t pull back, letting Bucky kiss him, even if he didn’t react otherwise.

“Like this,” he murmured pulling back a little bit. “Exactly like this.” He licked his lips, imagining he could taste Steve on them. “Did you like it?”

“Going to hell,” Steve said.

Frowning, Bucky started to lean back and managed the first syllable of ‘What’, when Steve’s free hand snaked about his neck and yanked him back. This was a kiss Bucky remembered; Steve’s lips on his, rough and soft, his tongue tracing after he nipped at Bucky’s lips, sneaking past soon after. Hungry, needing, licking him open, and leaving him breathless. And he didn’t stop, not after a few seconds, not after minutes. The quinjet flew on and Steve kept kissing him, exploring his lips, sucking on them, on his tongue, leaving his lips sensitive and his mind hazy. He moaned into the kiss shamelessly, willing to continue as long as Steve would, and Steve made no sign of wanting to stop.

Then the jet landed and Steve jumped away from him, covered his mouth, and just stared at Bucky.

“Did you enjoy that?” Bucky asked roughly, his voice shot to hell. “Because I sure did.”

“We’re here, Nomad,” the pilot said before Steve could answer, making Bucky’s Handler jump again.

“O-okay,” Steve said, twisting his hand and gripping Bucky’s metal wrist, pulling him along out of the plane. They were on a roof, somewhere on the lower east side of Manhattan, but that’s all Bucky could see before Steve was yanking him inside, pulling him down the stairs to the second landing. He fumbled for his keys, got the door open one handed, still not answering Bucky’s question. 

When they got inside, he finally did… sort of. Steve slammed the door, spun and shoved Bucky against it to kiss him again. Bucky wasn’t about to stop Steve, and his arm was already in the correct mode anyway. He figured they could get an early start on making up for all the time they had missed. Opening his mouth, letting Steve in, he slid his hands down that powerful back to the shockingly small ass. Seriously, that butt was so small and perky it kind of broke Bucky’s mind. 

Getting two firm handfuls, he pulled Steve closer, spreading his legs and making Steve rub against him. The suit Steve was in was as tight as ever, leaving no doubt how excited Steve was. It sent a shiver of arousal through Bucky to feel Steve’s hardening cock rub over his own through the thick layers between them. Steve smelled of sweat and faintly of deodorant, gunpowder, and soap, making Bucky want to lick him all over. 

He broke the kiss enough to bite at Steve’s chin, along the wicked line of his jaw, and then down his neck, stopping to fit his teeth against a pronounced tendon and nipping. Steve shuddered against him, powerful hands tugging at the straps and zippers of Bucky’s tac gear without actually opening them. He could feel Steve fumbling and could tell he was a breath away from just ripping it all off himself.

Someone female cleared her throat pointedly. Steve froze, pulled from Bucky’s mouth, and though he didn’t immediately pull away, Bucky knew this was going to set back whatever progress he’d just made with Steve.

Fucking Oracle.

Clearing his own throat, though from embarrassment, Steve turned around in Bucky’s arms.

“Sakura,” he murmured. “Hi.”

Over Steve’s shoulder, Bucky could see a girl standing halfway up a staircase on the far side of the room. She was glaring at them, though also hiding behind the banister railing, and making no move to come any closer. Bucky took the moment to get a good look at her and had to admit, she wasn’t much of a threat. Dyed red hair hung past her waist, with bangs framing her face and the overlarge round, tortoiseshell glasses perched on her nose. Her skin was pale, characteristic to people spending most of their time under a roof, enhanced by the black hoodie hanging loose on her small frame. What struck Bucky, though, were the neon green sneakers on her feet. The rest of his mind catalogued her attributes as he observed her, should he need them later: Japanese, hardly over five feet tall, unhealthily skinny, with no upper body strength at all. He could have held her at bay with a hand on her forehead, like a gag in those old television shows. 

“I see you’re fine,” she said testily.

“Yes,” Steve said slowly, “Bucky helped me through my attack. Sorry if you were worried.”

Oracle huffed, flicked her eyes to Bucky, and then darted back upstairs. Steve groaned, but leaned back against Bucky’s chest for support. It startled Bucky enough, he stopped thinking about the girl entirely, lifting his hands to Steve’s shoulders to help support him.

“It’s gonna take a week to talk her out of her room,” Steve half-whined, half-grumbled.

“Can't you just drag her out?” Bucky said, not completely seriously. He still had problems with this whole empathy thing. He understood logically that giving people time was the best course of action, but his actual experience was always to force his way through, whether he wanted it or not. 

“No,” Steve huffed, looking back over his shoulder at Bucky, “she just freaks out more and that’s not progress, Buck.” He watched him for a minute, before turning back in his arms, and best of all, still leaning against him. “She’s not like us. She’s fragile.”

Bucky was proud of himself for not adding that people eventually don't even have the energy to freak out anymore, or that even fear can be worked out of a person by force. He knew that was not how things were done. He had _learned_ that, even though it had worked for him.

Something hesitant flickered in Steve’s eyes just before he brushed a chaste, there-and-gone kiss over Bucky’s lips and stepped back.

“Lemme change and I’ll make us something to eat.”

Bucky let him pull away, then followed as he went towards the stairs, then past them to a door hidden just on the other side. As they went, he took the time to note the house was very clean, stark, but not cold. He’d already noted the exits: the door they’d come in, the glass-doored balcony, the stairs which would lead to more windows. Besides the door they were about to head through - Bucky assumed Steve’s bedroom - there was living room, kitchen, and dining room, which was impressive for a place anywhere in New York City.

Glancing Back, Steve raised an eyebrow and said pointedly, “You’re following me.”

“I need to change too,” Bucky said, motioning to his multitude of holsters and weapons still strapped to his body. The black tactical gear looked almost identical to the kind he wore while under Hydra control, only this had more under armoring and even _more_ holsters. Natasha always made fun of him constantly falling in love with a new piece of gear that he just had to have added to his usual arsenal.

“And you can’t do that in the living room, because…?” Steve prompted, but he had kept going into the bedroom without making Bucky stop. The room was a lot warmer, though darker than Bucky expected. There were no lights on, blackout curtains ocovered the windows, and Steve didn’t flip a light-switch as they entered. Yet the room was neat, bed made, and there were small nick-knacks here and there, if not many. Most importantly, the walls were lined with canvases, not that Bucky could see what was on them.

Bucky smiled, slow and wicked.

“I don’t have anything ‘civilian’ under this and…” he made sure to take a good look at the long stretch of Nomad’s body, enjoying the way he filled out his own suit, the way his biceps bulged out when he crossed his arms in front of him. “I can’t reach all of the buckles. Need some help.”

“Sure you do,” Steve said, calling Bucky’s bullshit with a look, but even now not making him leave. “Need to borrow some clothes?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said following after his Handler into a decent sized walk-in closet. “Mine were on the quinjet the others took.”

From the built-in shelves, Steve grabbed sweats and white t-shirts, then turned to walk out again. Bucky didn’t move and Steve fetched up against him, clothing between them, staring into his eyes. They went dark, pupils dilating slowly, and only then did Bucky move, standing to the side enough so Steve had to brush against him to pass.

In the bedroom, he set the clothes on the foot of the bed and then faced Bucky.

“Okay, what do you need help with?” he asked dryly.

Bucky lowered his head, looking at Steve from beneath his lashes. He raised his metal hand, showing off the silver fingers.

“Shoulder holsters,” he murmured, letting his voice go low. “Metal fingers aren’t so good at the buckles and things…”

Though Steve shot him a pure look of disbelief, he still walked to Bucky and then around behind him. His hands slid under the leather straps, a feeling muted by the layers of leather, then tugged and pulled, sliding it up and around Bucky’s broad shoulders, then down his arms. Bucky thought he felt Steve’s hands linger on the contours of his body a little longer than was strictly necessary.

“Anything else?” Steve asked, right behind Bucky, holding the holster out without stepping back, his arm against Bucky’s.

Slowly, Bucky turned around, took the holster, and then tossed it on the bed.

“Thigh holsters. That buckle in the back is tricky.”

“Bucky…” Steve started.

“Please?” Bucky interrupted, letting the tone of his voice drop before Steve could back out. The man was so damn skittish. Even now his gaze flicked down Bucky’s body, then up before he sank slowly to his knees. 

Bucky spread his legs to ground his stance and fought the urge to just bury his fingers in those short blond locks that looked so inviting, so soft. “You have to pull,” he said roughly, seeing Steve shudder gently. “until you feel the _give_.”

“Bucky,” Steve said, his own voice wrecked as he put his hands on Bucky’s legs, just above his knees, and the heat of them scorched through the cloth.

“It can be _hard_ ,” Bucky whispered, watching Steve’s bent head, “you just have to put your back into it.”

Hearing Steve swallow, he then watched as he leaned forward, reaching between and around Bucky’s legs, hands following the tight path of the holster about his thigh. He felt the first tug, and then Steve paused.

“I can spread my legs more,” Bucky offered, swallowing dryly himself, “if you feel it’ll help you.”

Steve didn’t answer, but looked up at him. The room was too dark, he couldn’t see Steve’s eyes properly, but his lips were parted, face red. Giving in to the urge, Bucky carded his flesh fingers through Steve’s hair and felt him shiver under the touch.

“You were always such a pushy bastard,” Steve whispered and the holster came off in his hands.

Bucky was aware he was more than half-hard and there was no way Steve was unaware of it, but he didn’t care. He wanted Steve to notice, see Bucky wanting him. There was no more doubt in his mind that Steve wanted him.

“You are just giving me a helping hand,” Bucky said, keeping his voice a whisper as well. He kept running his flesh fingers through the golden strands that fascinated him so much. As brief as the touch was, it still let him catch a brief sense of the heat pouring off of Steve.

“Such a fibber,” Steve scolded, shifting to his side and adjusting his arms to reach around Bucky’s leg again. This time he didn’t lean back, or twist awkwardly away from Bucky, but leaned his shoulder and neck against Bucky’s thigh. The warmth of Steve’s body was exquisite, even through his clothes. He wondered if Steve could smell him. He itched to smell the scent of Steve’s skin right now.

Then the holster was coming free and Steve was pulling away, standing, and offering Bucky one of the shirts of sweats he’d put on the bed. Bucky took them, not taking his eyes away from Steve, but just put them on the table behind him, it was an artist’s thing, but Bucky didn’t care about that right now. He quickly unstrapped his jacket and pulled it off, showing Steve that he didn’t lie, he truly didn't have anything under it. 

“Bucky,” Steve gasped, staring at Bucky’s chest in all it’s scarred glory. Bucky felt a little thrill cause a curl of warmth low in his belly. Steve still wanted to look.

“You wanted me to strip, right?” Bucky said, never once breaking eye contact with Steve as he reached for his belt.

“ _Change_ , Bucky,” Steve said, sounding strangled as Bucky bent over, tugged at his laces, then stepped out of his combat boots. “Not strip.”

“Is there a difference?” Bucky asked straightening back up. “Since I’m taking off my clothes either way?” Bucky put his hand on his waist. He unstrapped the protective layers and hooked his fingers under the cloth. “Watch,” he ordered, pushing the pants down his hips in one fluid move. 

“Yes,” Steve said thickly, but Bucky didn’t know if he was answering his question, or responding to his command. Either way, Bucky let himself smirk slightly and enjoy the way Steve couldn't seem to take his eyes off him. He could feel Steve’s eyes follow the movement, straying briefly to his belly, then snagging on the obvious bulge of Bucky’s cock straining the black cotton of his briefs. They then traveled lower, over his thighs until Bucky could kick his pants off, leaving a trail of fire on Bucky’s skin in their wake.

Reaching behind him, he grabbed the first item of folded clothing and shook it out. It turned out to be pants, so he bent over again and heard Steve take a short, sharp breath in. He moved slowly, putting first one leg into the pants, then the second before he straightened out slowly to pull them up. He watched Steve, moving equally slowly as the fabric slid over this thighs, over his ass, only glancing away to be sure to pull them away from him as not to catch on his cock. The sweats were tight around his thighs and his ass, his dimensions different than Steve's, and the legs were a tad too long.

Now that he felt his point was made, Bucky reached for the shirt and shrugged it on quickly. His chest was still tight and full from the way Steve was looking at him, his eyes dark, a high flush on his cheeks. Going to the edge of the bed, Bucky sat down next to the remaining clothing. He leant back on his arms, spreading his legs, making himself comfortable without looking away from Steve as he in turn looked at the inviting stretch of Bucky’s body.

“Weren’t you supposed to strip?”

“Bucky...”

“Out of that suit?” Bucky continued as if he had always meant to say it.

Steve’s hands lifted to his right shoulder, where Bucky guessed there was a hidden zipper or strap, and then froze. 

Leaning forward, Bucky asked innocently, “Need some help?”

When Steve ducked his head, flushing even in this lighting, Bucky expected a no, not the very soft, “Yeah. Bit of a pain,” Steve said.

Bucky licked his lips and sat up, reaching for Steve’s hips and pulling him to stand between Bucky’s legs. Then he slid his hand, the flesh one, to the front of Steve’s pants and flattened his palm over the bulge he could feel there, hard and getting harder. He pressed gently, enough to make Steve gasp a little, curl forward and grab onto Bucky’s shoulders. When Steve didn’t say anything, Bucky slid the tips of his fingers under Steve’s waistband, feeling how hot Steve was under the clothes and unsnapped the two buttons in front.

“Am I helping?” Bucky asked roughly, making sure to look up at Steve from beneath his lashes. He tilted closer, a little bit, and inhaled deeply, trying to catch more of Steve’s scent.

“I… don’t think I know,” Steve answered shakily, one hand lifting from Bucky’s shoulder to run through his hair and mumbling, “Never could say no to you.”

Bucky hummed, tilting his head gently towards the touch. “No need to start now,” he said and opened the zipper, feeling the way Steve strangled a sound in his chest. He leaned in even closer, resting his forehead on Steve’s belly, really feeling the heat of him, and pushed the pants down Steve’s legs slowly, listening to the small rasp of hair against cloth and Steve’s ragged breathing.

Once he was sure the pants were down, Bucky curled his hands over Steve’s thighs, just above his knees, feeling the tension in his muscles, the subtle shift of the tendons under his fingers. Then he lowered his head, pressing his cheek against the warm, straining cotton of Steve’s briefs. He stayed there for a while, rubbing his cheek over the hard flesh under the cloth, just enjoying the smell and the heat, the closeness of touch and Steve breath, harsh and strained, above him.

“I like the way you smell,” Bucky said, eyes closed. “I bet I will like the way you taste, too.” 

Again there was no protest, so Bucky dragged his hands up the back of Steve’s thighs until he reached the hard swell of his buttocks. He grabbed the edge of the underwear with his teeth as he squeezed, and let Steve feel his breath before dragging them lower. Not far, just enough to free the head of Steve’s cock from under the fabric. Then he used his fingers to finish the job, pushing the cloth down as he shifted back enough to look at Steve’s cock. It was fully hard, swollen and flushed a nice pink. Big. 

One of the things Bucky regretted from his time with Steve as the Soldier was that he never had a chance to just explore Steve. His memories from before that were choppy and unreliable at best. Big things, important things were all right, but a lot of the details were forever lost to him. Like this, Steve’s cock. He couldn’t remember ever being allowed to just study it like this. It was nestled in a patch of golden hair that made him want to crack jokes about the carpet matching the drapes. Instead, he wrapped his hand around the base and gave it a lick with the flat of his tongue.

“Jesus, Bucky,” Steve cursed, the words punching from his chest as his hands tightened, the one in Bucky’s hair tugging hard.

Bucky licked again, feeling the taste of precome already. Above him, Steve was breathing raggedly, far faster than just a lick should have caused, and Bucky didn’t want to tease him. He opened his mouth wider, wrapped his lips over his teeth and took as much of Steve into his mouth as he could, sucking all the way down. Bucky found he was right: he did like the taste of Steve on his tongue. 

Shifting so he could wrap his flesh fingers over Steve’s balls, Bucky gave them a little squeeze each time he bobbed his head, his metal fingers oh so careful on the base of Steve’s cock, holding him gently enough he didn’t hurt Steve, but firmly enough he had to feel it. His mouth filled with saliva and precome, so much so it dripped from the corners of his lips. Bucky’s lips were still sensitive from Steve’s kisses and they tingled as he sucked at Steve as best he could, tongue flicking over the vein beneath, trying to taste as much as possible. 

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to Bucky that Steve came after hardly a minute. He shuddered violently, crying out for the first time, and practically bowed over Bucky’s head. Digging his hand into Steve’s hip, Bucky held him up as Steve swelled on his tongue, then spilled into his mouth. The taste was bitter and salty, but underneath this was male musk and something he associated only with Steve.

Steve collapsed when he finished and it took all Bucky’s reflexes and considerable strength to catch, turn, and pull Steve into his lap. Steve didn’t fight him, going limp, then clinging to him, pressing his face into Bucky’s neck and wrapping his arms tight about his shoulders. Bucky smiled, turning his head to kiss Steve’s temple. Just then he couldn’t have gotten away from Steve’s octopus arms if he’d wanted.

Then he realized Steve was crying.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has been sitting in limbo forever because we mislabeled the document and I thought it was posted... It's not like we're ACTIVELY writing...

Steve was sure that the feeling of Bucky’s arms around him, the press of his skin against Steve’s face, was all that was keeping him together. As it was, he wasn’t exactly what a normal person would call ‘together’. It wasn’t a panic attack, of that he was sure, but Steve couldn’t have said why he couldn’t _stop_ crying, either. He had fallen, the orgasm and his emotions too much all at once, but Bucky had caught him. Had caught him and Steve had held on, because it was everything.

“Inconsolable crying isn’t the response I was hoping for,” Bucky murmured and Steve managed a hiccupping laugh. “Is it a commentary on my skills? Am I so good I broke your brain?”

Steve managed the sound again and nodded.

“That’s good. Was afraid it was so bad you couldn't even find the words to express your horror.”

Pressing tighter to Bucky, tightening his hold on him, Steve shook his head.

“For a moment there my ego felt a little insecure. It’s all right now, though.”

Vaguely, Steve realized Bucky was trying to comfort him. Tease him, when his reaction was more than a little ridiculous. Even now he couldn’t stop crying, Bucky’s neck and shirt growing damp. Yet it was so… impossible, what had happened. Bucky had touched him, _wanted_ him, pushed Steve to give in so hard. Like his old Bucky would, but so much more than that because this wasn’t _his_ Bucky any more, not entirely, not even mostly. 

“I’m going to move us higher up the bed, hold on,” Bucky murmured and then he was moving, muscles tensing under Steve. Steve clung tightly to Bucky, his face still pressed to Bucky’s neck, and a moment later they were both lying down on the bed. Rather, Bucky was lying down on it and Steve was lying on top of him. For some reason, that had Steve sobbing particularly hard, even as he curled himself tighter about Bucky, clinging harder, needing the solid reality as a reminder that this wasn’t a dream. It was Bucky’s flesh hand running up and down Steve’s back in rhythmic, soothing motions, not his imagination.

“You don’t hate me,” Steve choked out between sobs. 

“I don't,” Bucky said, sounding confused, but sure. “I told you that before. I missed you.”

“I know,” Steve hiccuped, shaking his head and rubbing his face against Bucky’s shirt, “but now.” A fresh wave of tears swept over Steve before he could finish and tell Bucky that he _understood_ now. Steve hadn’t made Bucky do anything; Bucky had _wanted_ it, had been clear and sure and obvious about his own desire. 

“You just now got it?” Bucky chuckled, but he kept stroking Steve’s back.

“You didn’t,” Steve choked out. “You never said.” Another sob interrupted him because it was just so _much_. “God, I’m a mess.”

“I never said what? That I didn’t hate you? Of course I didn’t hate you. Was angry as hell you were gone, but I never hated you.”

“Want was not permitted,” Steve sobbed.

Bucky stilled in his arms, before resuming his stroking.

“No, it wasn’t,” Bucky agreed softly. “So I was very careful not to think of it that way.”

Nodding, Steve tried to speak because he was sobbing on a man who had just given him a blow job and, for fuck’s sake. He was going to make some attempt at explanation.

“You never wanted. But now.” Breathing raggedly, he curled about Bucky’s torso. “Now you do and you don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Bucky repeated patiently. “And I think I put enough effort into getting you out of your clothes that it’s quite clear I want you.” 

Steve nodded fervently and repeated, “Now,” because that was the crux of it. That was what mattered so much. Because Bucky had been so distant, so cold and clinical about it all. Only when Steve had broken him down with pleasure did he even show any emotion, and by then Steve had forced himself on Bucky. This? This had been perfect.

“No,” Bucky denied and every part of Steve stilled to listen, even his sobs quieting to little hitching gasps of air. “Before… I might have called it different, might have tailored my responses to what was expected of me, but I watched you the same way I watch you now. I was fascinated by how strong you seemed, how competent. I was so very, very eager to follow your orders. I wanted you then, too, I just couldn’t let myself admit it.”

The words repeated in Steve’s mind. Bucky had wanted him. Had wanted what happened. That was why he didn’t feel Steve had raped him, or that he had been Steve’s victim. He’d wanted Steve. Steve didn’t think that still made it right, Bucky hadn’t been able to say no, but… but he’d _wanted_ Steve.

It took a moment for Steve to be able to unclench his hands from around Bucky’s back. When he sat up, Bucky looked at him worriedly, but let him roll away. His ass hit the bed, legs still thrown over Bucky’s stomach, and Steve made quick work of his boots, then the pants constricting his legs. The top of his suit was next, all of it chucked unceremoniously around the room. Then he swung his legs off Bucky, and twisted around. Bucky was sitting up, watching him, but he lay back as Steve leaned over him.

“You okay?” Bucky murmured, reaching up and brushing his palm across Steve’s cheek.

“No,” Steve said honestly, “but I think I’m better.”

Before Bucky could say anything else, Steve kissed him lightly. Then he kissed each corner of his mouth, his nose, and both his eyelids. He kept kissing Bucky, trailing his lips over his cheeks, his jaw, chin, and forehead. By the time Steve was done, having kissed every inch of that gorgeous face, Bucky was smiling. His eyes were closed, but it was a real smile pulling up his mouth as he held Steve loosely in his arms.

Taking Bucky’s face in his hands, he watched those grey eyes open and felt lighter than he had since 1941.

“I missed you, too,” Steve whispered. “I’ve missed you every day since you got on that stupid train after that stupid fair. No, let me finish,” Steve said when Bucky’s eyes grew stormy. “You never really came back to me. I know now, you thought all that with Pegs, but… then I thought you died and then…” Steve couldn’t say it; the bridge, the helicarriers, the Hydra lab. “But I think, finally, I’ve got you again.”

“I’m not the man I used to be,” Bucky said harshly. “Don’t expect…”

Steve huffed.

“You think I am?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky said. “A lot of my memories are missing. Jumbled up. My freshest ones of you are from from that cabin, and to me? You are a similar man. I don't feel like I ever got to know you. Not for real.”

Lightly, Steve pressed a kiss to Bucky’s lips.

“I ain’t that guy you left behind. I ain’t the guy who went to war. I ain’t the guy who came out of the ice, and I ain’t the guy who came to get you again. You don’t need to know them. Get to know me now, like I get to know you all over again.”

“Seems like a good deal,” Bucky murmured, his hand resuming the slow travel up and down Steve’s back, making him shiver. It kept travelling lower each time, edging closer and closer to Steve’s ass and he couldn’t help but be hyper-aware of it, each little touch. It had been so long since anyone had touched him except in passing.

Lowering his head, Steve pressed a kiss to Bucky’s pulse and looked up at him nervously. Yes, Bucky had been clear he wanted Steve, but this was still so… new. As new as it wasn’t.

“Still want me?” Steve asked, an offering as much as he was willing to make it.

“I,” Bucky commented lightly, “wasn't the one who got a blow job.”

“No,” Steve agreed. “Did I mention you’ve got a great mouth?”

“No,” Bucky drawled, “I don’t remember you telling me any such thing.”

“Fucking incredible,” Steve praised, dragging his lips along Bucky’s jaw as he said it. “Turned me inside out.” He let his hand wander down Bucky’s chest, over the flat belly and lower, to the half-hard cock resting on Bucky’s thigh. “Been a long time, Buck, but you know what’s been a _really_ long time?” 

Bucky exhaled sharply and Steve could feel his cock filling rapidly in his hand. 

“No,” he breathed out. “What?”

Steve smiled, biting his lip before admitting, “Been a really, really long time since you were inside me.”

Bucky tightened the arm around Steve’s back and it was all the warning he had before Bucky rolled them over, putting Steve on his back and braced himself above him with his metal arm.

“You sure? You get really twitchy when I move, sometimes.” 

With Bucky’s cock still hard in Steve’s grip, warm and thick, Steve knew it wasn’t that Bucky didn’t want him.

“Please?” Steve murmured. “Been so damn long.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. 

“You don’t have to beg.” He shifted himself so that he was between Steve’s legs. “Unless you want to,” he added with a gasp as Steve parted his legs and let him settle easily between them.

“Please,” Steve said again, squeezing Bucky’s shaft in his hand. “I’ve wanted you inside me like you can’t believe. Want to feel you. Please, Bucky...”

Bucky’s eyelashes were dark, as they rested on his flushed cheeks, his hair falling forward when he bent his head, gasping under Steve’s caress.

“I want you anyway I can get you,” Bucky said roughly, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips.

“Can have anything you want,” Steve promised.

Bucky groaned, so low and growly it sent shivers down Steve’s back. It was so primal and male; everything Steve loved about sex. Gripping Steve’s thighs, Bucky lifted his hips up as he situated himself a bit higher up the bed, simultaneously bending him so Bucky’s head hovered above his own. It was so familiar, so _right_. Steve instinctively wrapped his legs about Bucky’s thick waist and pulled his hand from between his legs, putting both about Bucky’s neck. As Bucky let go of his thigh and braced his elbow on the bed beside Steve, he clung to him, looking up as Bucky looked down through the mass of hair falling over his face. Bucky’s pupils were still blown wide, desire clear in his face. Steve bit his lip, loving the feel of that powerful body over him and how easily Bucky had manhandled him into the position he wanted. God, but he had missed this.

“You aren’t hard.” 

It didn’t sound like a question. A warning, maybe. Steve didn’t know and didn’t much care, so long as Bucky didn’t quit on him now.

“Is that a problem?” Steve asked, then inhaled sharply as Bucky shoved his hips against Steve’s ass, pushing against him so hard his body bent even further and he had to slam his palms against the headboard so as to not hit his head against it.

“Sorry,” Bucky gasped, leaning lower to kiss Steve. It wasn’t the careful kiss from the plane, or the one from his living room where Steve had led. This was hard; Bucky’s tongue sweeping into his mouth, fucking into him like he wanted to get out from between Steve’s legs and replace his tongue with his cock. Not that he moved. No, Bucky kept bending Steve in half, keeping the pressure so Steve couldn’t drop his hands. He was trapped there, between Bucky and the headboard, as his mouth was plundered.

When Bucky rubbed against him, Steve groaned and the kiss abruptly ended.

“I want you,” Bucky said, shaking his hair out of his face, his voice completely shot. “I’ve wanted you for a _long_ time.” Bucky was rubbing against Steve shamelessly, his cock leaving traces of wetness on Steve’s skin. “Need you to touch me, Steve.”

“Um,” Steve said and watched something fearful flicker in Bucky’s eyes. Steve didn’t understand that, but it made it far easier to say, “Don’t wanna hit my head,” just to see the look leave again.

Bucky looked at him blankly for a second, then frowned in concentration. The movement of his hips stopped, so Steve tentatively lifted his hands to Bucky’s skin again. Well, the one touching his left shoulder was on both skin and metal, but that wasn’t important. What was was the way Bucky’s expression relaxed, goosebumps racing out from under skin where he had trailed his hand. The metal arm shivered and Bucky gasped.

Then, without warning, he pushed himself backwards, taking Steve with him by the grip he had on his hips. Inhaling sharply, Steve let Bucky do with him as he pleased. It turned out, what Bucky pleased was to drag him to the edge of the bed so his ass hung off, then press his ankles about Bucky’s waist. Getting the hint, he locked his legs tight and saw Bucky’s eyes go dark just before he pressed back, pushing his cock back between Steve’s legs and against his ass. Since he was standing, Steve’s hips were raised, but he didn’t slide back very far as his hips caught on the mattress.

“Better?” Bucky asked, and his voice alone probably could have undone Steve if he hadn’t already been a wreck.

“Yeah,” Steve gasped, “but no slick.”

“No,” Bucky’s face went blank and then his jaw ticked. “The hell you mean, no slick? Steve… Steve, I can’t wait.”

For a second Steve thought he was going to have to bare-back it - not an experience he enjoyed over much, but they’d not always had more than spit during and before the War - but he’d do it. When Bucky had that look in his eyes, he’d gladly do it. Then Bucky demanded, “Lotion. Liberal amounts of lotion will do it,” and Steve relaxed again.

“I got lotion,” Steve said and it was Bucky’s turn to relax.

“Where?” he asked, followed by, “No, stay put,” when Steve tried to get up to get it. Not that Steve would have been able to, the way Bucky’s hands clamped down on his hips. 

Slowly, trying to figure out what the hell was getting into Bucky, Steve relaxed back onto the bed and pointed towards the closed, adjoining bathroom door. Bucky nodded, lowered Steve’s legs to the ground and _ran_ into the bathroom. Sitting up a little to watch, Steve’s eyebrows climbed into his hair and he briefly worried for the door, frame, hinges, and handle. Then Bucky was back, bottle in hand, and roughly pulling Steve back into position. For a moment, Steve considered asking what was wrong, but the intensity of Bucky’s gaze stopped him. He could ask later, for now, he was going to give Bucky what he wanted, what they both wanted.

To Steve’s surprise, instead of pouring the lotion into his flesh hand, Bucky smeared the metal one with the white liquid. The touch of the metal was cold against his skin, making him shiver, but he couldn’t help but feel every millimeter as he pushed the tip of his index finger past Steve’s rim. As he gasped, reaching for Bucky’s arms and holding on hard, Steve realized that was the point. The temperature difference left him feeling _everything_ , every twitch of the scaled plates, every ridged knuckle, and every bit of his finger as it filled him up. Bucky’s gaze was so heavy now, drinking in every twitch, gasp, and shiver as he worked that single finger inside Steve, then pulled it out just as slowly. Steve hardly had time to worry the metal might catch on something sensitive, because Bucky found his prostate and began rubbing, sending pleasure through Steve’s exhausted body. 

Before Bucky even added a second finger, Steve was gasping, writhing on the bed, and biting his lip to keep from crying out. Encouraging Steve to make noise seemed to be Bucky’s goal, however, as he hardly strayed from the sensitive nerve bundle, insistently massaging it, demanding a response from Steve’s body whether it wanted to respond or not. Steve wanted, but the rest of him wasn’t getting on board as fast as either of them wanted. 

Steve’s first moan came when Bucky pulled his finger free, switched hands, and pushed two lotion coated fingers inside him. It was still cold, and Bucky no less demanding, but it felt so fucking good. The two digits stretched him ruthlessly, thrusting deep. Steve expected to feel pain, but Bucky had loosened him so well on his metal finger that they slid in with just the sensation of being pulled open, of his body adjusting to the new thickness. The surprise of it made him moan, and Bucky took the opening. His fingers bore down on Steve’s prostate again, rubbing in merciless circles that made him groan, then cry out as the intensity of pleasure increased and didn’t end. 

“I thought about this,” Bucky said roughly, leaning closer, curling his metal hand around Steve’s thigh. “About you. How you would feel around me.”   
At last Steve’s cock twitched on his thigh, blood filling it under Bucky’s attention. Belatedly, he realized he had hardly touched Bucky as asked, just griped tight to his forearm and shoulder, hanging on as his body was stimulated more than it had been in three years. It was irresistible and overpowering, and Bucky was granting him no respite. Holding on was really all he could do and he hardly noticed as Bucky added a third finger, except the stretch of his muscles returned.

“Steve,” Bucky said, his eyes dark and voice almost desperate. It occurred to Steve that Bucky had waited a while for this, not only from the time he had given Steve a blow job, but longer. A _lot_ longer. There was so much pleading, so much want, that it stole his breath away. And it wasn’t just for today, it was for the last three years. Maybe longer.

“Yes, now, please,” Steve called, pulling Bucky towards him. “Get inside me.”

The demand pulled a raw and ragged cry from Bucky and he lunged forward, covering Steve’s mouth and kissing him. No, devouring him. Even as he did, Bucky crawled onto the bed with him, over him, hands pawing at Steve’s thighs, at his ass. Steve clawed right back, hands sliding over his shoulders, his back, probably leaving scratch marks. It was a rush, feeling that heated body over him, how powerful it was. It made his heart pound, kiss Bucky harder, and moan as Bucky pressed the head of his cock against Steve’s hole.

The first push stole his ability to speak, or move. It had been so long since Steve had done this, since he felt that stretch and fullness. All he could do was to curl his fingers, tighten his grip again, and hold on. It felt like the first time all over again; a little pain, a lot of stretch, a delicious burn, and _all_ of Bucky. Even the pain felt good, like claiming.

Straining to keep his lips on Bucky’s, Steve mostly failed. He managed to land sloppy kisses over Bucky’s cheeks, his jaw, his chin. Bucky didn’t stop moving once he started, giving Steve no time to adjust, just holding on and thrusting, his hips fast and furious. It was rough and graceless, but so fucking good. Bucky wasn’t silent like they’d been in the War, or quiet like they’d been before that. He was _loud_ , vocal, groaning, breathing out Steve’s name like it was a prayer. It was making Steve dizzy. Bucky wasn’t even hitting Steve’s prostate completely, the thrusts too fast, too uncoordinated. That didn’t matter though, each thrust pushed a strangled moan out of Steve anyway. He loved it, the pressure and the fullness, the simple presence of Bucky inside him, but mostly the desperation.

Steve did his best to meet Bucky’s thrusts, bracing his back against the mattress edge and pulling off as Bucky pulled out, then pushing towards him as Bucky thrust in. Closing his eyes, Steve reveled in being so close with Bucky. He had thought he would never get to experience this again. He didn't think Bucky would ever want him, not to mention this fiercely, or this desperately. It was perfect, better than, because it was _real_.

Bucky arched over him and barked his name. Steve could feel him swelling inside him, then spilling hot come within his tunnel. 

“Bucky,” Steve groaned. 

“Steve,” Bucky repeated, then said it again and again like a mantra. Like it was unbelievable Steve was there, with him. “Steve, Steve, Steve.”

Though Steve wanted to be gentle with him, let Bucky come down slowly, he was so close and even a slight shift of Bucky’s weight made him whimper and clamp down on the softening cock inside him. Bucky, in turn, shuddered in his arms and then surged up, sealing his mouth over Steve’s as he worked his hand between them to wrap it around Steve’s cock. He stroked as roughly as he’d fucked, pushing Steve towards a second orgasm even as Bucky’s soft cock slipped from his ass. Steve dug his nails back into Bucky’s shoulders and _shouted_.

It didn’t take long, not after the fucking, the intensity of Steve’s emotions, and how damned long it had been. When he came, coating Bucky’s hand, he passed out, or maybe he just dissociated, Steve wasn’t honestly sure. When he came back to himself, however, Steve was back in the middle of the bed and Bucky was curled around him, chin settled atop his head, metal fingers lightly trailing up and down over Steve’s arm.

Humming, mostly to let Bucky know he was with him again, Steve turned his face into Bucky’s throat and pressed a light kiss to his skin. 

“Hey,” Steve muttered.

“Hey,” Bucky said, head dipping to press a kiss to Steve’s hair. It was sweet and gentle, but Steve could feel the subtle change in tension that ran through his body.

Remembering something had been going on with Bucky, but still not knowing what, Steve prompted, “So, that was amazing.” 

“So much better than I imagined,” Bucky said, his voice still a little shot. He slid his hands down Steve’s back, to curl possessively over his ass, and pulled Steve closer to him, plastering them together from chest to hip. Letting out another content hum, Steve let him, leaning against Bucky and curling closer to him.

“Kind of a fan of you not being gentle anymore,” Steve confessed.

“Sorry if I was too rough,” Bucky apologized, but Steve could tell he wasn’t sorry at all. 

“Uh huh,” Steve said sarcastically.

“I know you don’t like hearing it but… but I found Nomad really hot. He was strong - stronger than me - and it was such a rare thing. I spent the last three years imagining how it would feel to just let go, to be able to just go at it however hard I wanted to. It’s…” Bucky hesitated, ducking his head a little, lips brushing Steve’s hair again.

“I’m glad you did,” Steve murmured, smiling against Bucky’s collarbone. “Let go, I mean. Seemed like, ah, something else was on your mind, though.”

Instead of answering, Bucky was quiet for a long while. He kept touching Steve, so he let him have his silence, even when it went on so long he started to worry Bucky wouldn't answer at all. Steve’s patience paid off, however, when Bucky began talking again.

“All of this… it’s so unexpected. I was prepared for a mission, not for meeting you. And,” Bucky swallowed, the sound loud so close to Steve’s ear, “it feels that if I slow down, let go for even a second, you’ll be gone.”

Turning his head, Steve’s lips found Bucky’s pulse and he kept kissing, up his neck, over his jaw, to his ear. He nipped, just to make sure he had his attention, then whispered, “I’m not going anywhere. ‘M right here, and you don’t gotta go anywhere until you believe it.”

Bucky closed his eyes and nuzzled back into Steve, like a large cat demanding to be pet. Chuckling, Steve slid his hand up Bucky’s back, into his hair. His Bucky had always loved having his hair played with, Steve’s fingers stroking it idly, or purposeful, and he didn’t expect that to have changed. 

“I want to,” Bucky admitted, though Steve didn’t know which statement he was answering. “It’s been so hard, finding people who can understand what I am, what I’m capable of, what my body is capable of. It’s like I’m some kind of different species.” Bucky sighed. “But you are like me. You _know_.” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, nodding, keeping his voice low since his mouth was still next to Bucky’s ear, “I know. You know, you once helped me get used to it. Bein’ so different.”

“I did?” Bucky asked, sounding a little more awake than he had been. “I don’t remember everything.” The words were a little grumpy, as if he couldn’t decide if he regretted the lack of memory, or was miffed it was expected of him.

“I know,” Steve hushed, “I don’t expect you to, but I can’t talk about me, without talking about you. You helped me get used to it. Learn control, discipline, so I didn’t hurt someone just ‘cause I got mad… or scared.”

“On the one hand,” Bucky snickered here, “I kind of want to know what happened, more of my past. On the other, I feel like if I do, I will be expected to be that man.” Bucky’s voice went fierce, a thread of anger in as he declared, “And I am _not_.” 

Steve snorted, then leaned back to avoid colliding with Bucky as the man’s head swung around.

“All right, first off,” Steve said, trying to keep his tone light, “you learning about _my_ past doesn’t make you obligated to do anything but listen. And second, if you don’t know him? How would you even know if you’re like him?”

“You already saw a lot of what I am now, and you liked none of it,” Bucky said quietly.

“Stop,” Steve interrupted, not sure if Bucky actually meant to go on or not. “That’s not - You’re talking about the cabin? Costa Rica? ‘Cause if you are, Bucky, that… I…” Steve sat up, pulling away from Bucky to sit next to him, legs crossed. “I was fucked up, okay? I was so desperate to have my Bucky back, I was horrible to you. I know I was, and I’m sorry, but I never… I never didn’t like you, because I didn’t give you a chance. That won’t happen again. I stopped looking for my Bucky when I told you I loved you.”

A sharp shudder ran through Bucky’s body. His arm rippling, changing shape from the almost skin-soft dragonscale to bands of steel, hard and impenetrable. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that was a bad thing. It also left Steve with a burst of longing, because he wanted to know all those tells, what the arm reacted to, and there was every chance he’d just fucked his chance.

Then, with a last shudder, the arm suddenly relaxed back into the soft, dragon skin pattern.

“It’s still a mind-fuck,” Bucky said, his voice raspy, “to hear you say those words in this exact situation.”

“Say what?” Steve whispered, though he thought he could guess.

“I love you,” Bucky answered, still lying on his side, staring at Steve with dark, fathomless eyes. 

“Why?” Steve asked, feeling a strange hush to the room, a tension he thought he could feel. Bucky didn’t answer, however, just looked away. Leaning forward onto his hand, over Bucky, Steve asked again. “Why, Buck?”

“Trigger,” he said thickly. “There’s part of them that always remains.”

Leaning closer, Steve let his gaze flick all over Bucky’s face. 

“You’re not lying,” Steve said slowly, “but you’re not telling me everything either.” Warily, Bucky looked at him and leaned back, so Steve crept forward, not letting him run as much as Bucky had stopped Steve before. “No, see, the situation had nothin’ to do with the trigger. And I didn’t say the words the same way. If I didn’t know - see it, I’d still know you weren’t telling the whole truth. So what’s it, Bucky? What aren’t you telling me?”

Bucky took a shaky breath and tried to lean away some more, but there’s really not a lot of room to escape in when you’re lying on a bed.

“Think I’ll get it out of you if I say it again?”

“Nobody says it,” Bucky said very quietly. “I’m… Nobody means it,” he said finally.

Steve stayed hovering over Bucky so he could see every twitch and micro-expression, but lifted his hand. Carefully, he ran his index finger down over Bucky’s nose, then gently along his lower lip.

“Who told it to you and lied?” he asked quietly.

“People say they love things, people, all the time. They don’t know what I am. They do not mean it.”

“You are not a _thing_ ,” Steve snapped, harsher than he meant. His finger caught and pressed at the corner of Bucky’s lip and he lifted it, laying his hand over Bucky’s heart. “You are not a thing,” Steve said again, controlled, even.

Bucky smiled, a sad and wry little thing.

“The things I did… Some might argue I’m not human.”

“And some people are idiots,” Steve huffed. “But…,” tilting his head, Steve watched Bucky with every bit of attention he could muster as he said, “I know you. Do you agree?”

Bucky’s eyes were very dark and still, fixed on Steve’s gaze.

“I remember what I did,” Bucky said in lieu of answer. His tone was flat, even.

“I know you,” Steve declared, pressing his palm against Bucky’s heart. “I see all those things you’re trying to hide. That you expect no one to see.”

“Maybe,” Bucky allowed. “Doesn’t change what I did.”

“I don’t care what you did,” Steve hissed, leaning harder, holding Bucky in place. “I never cared what you did. I know you.” 

Bucky made a strange sound, a cross between a laugh and a snort.

“You don't care what I did?” he said, looking up at Steve. “But you don’t afford the same kind of lenience to yourself?” He reached out to touch Steve face with his flesh hand and slide his fingers slowly into Steve’s hair. The gentleness of his touch was at odds with the terrible expression in his eyes. “If you didn’t care, why would you hate yourself so much for things that didn’t even come close to what I did?”

“Is that really so hard to understand?” Steve leaned into Bucky’s touch, struggling not to close his eyes as well. “I hate myself. You?” Very quietly he said, “I love you.”

Bucky’s eyes softened, even as a subtle wave of tension that travelled his body, there and gone. 

“It doesn’t mean you don’t care,” Bucky said carefully. “It just means you try to take the blame.”

“No,” Steve said, slow and heavy, “It means I don’t care. Bucky, I put a knife in you and I did it slow and I did it to hurt, and you tell me it’s not so bad, it’s fine really, because it was better than you’d had. I did it knowing it was wrong, and I had to do it, and I think I threw up after. I still can’t touch knives. And you don’t care that I did it. _I don’t care_ , Bucky.”

Bucky closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. 

“What do you want me to say?” He asked. “That everything is all right and I am blameless? I won’t say it, because I am not blameless. I have a whole kaleidoscope of memories in my head to prove it to me whenever I close my eyes.”

“Bucky,” Steve said, moving his hand over Bucky’s heart to his chin and shaking lightly until he opened his eyes again, “I’m not trying to fix you like you think I am. I can’t offer you absolution, or guilt. I am telling you: I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re guilty, or innocent, or still my guy from the War who was neither of those things. I don’t care. Never cared, because I love you.”

Bucky’s eyes lightened and softened.

“I can accept that,” he said quietly.

“And,” Steve said pointedly, “I know you.”

“I think you knew me,” Bucky said slowly, “but I think you want to know me now, too.”

Worrying at his lip, Steve watched Bucky for a long moment, and then asked, “Then why do I see all you’re trying to hide from me?”

“You need to give me some time,” Bucky said slowly. “It’s not easy, giving up all my secrets like this.”

“You never have to, if you don’t want to,” Steve said, turning his hold into a caress, along the strong jaw, to his ear and back. “I won’t push you. I just… I see you, Bucky. I might not always understand, but… I think I know you.”

“You are the only person I feel like I can believe,” Bucky said quietly. “I don't think I would let anybody else this close.”

Steve’s heart thumped, skipping a beat, and he leaned down to brush their lips together. Bucky met him halfway, mouth open. The kiss was short, but hot, smooth as silk, like they’d never stopped in the hundred years they’d lived.

Sitting back, Steve moved so Bucky could sit up again and said, “So I need a shower and I’m still starving. Sound like a plan to you?”

Bucky’s face changed, the smirk stretching low and dirty over his face.

“I could… _eat_ ,” he all but purred.

Laughing, Steve gave Bucky a shove and slid off the opposite side of the bed. 

“You already did,” he pointed out, but made it only a few steps towards the door before Bucky was behind him, powerful arms wrapping about Steve’s waist as he pressed himself to Steve’s back. Grinning, feeling butterflies erupt in his stomach, Steve didn’t try to pull away. He leaned back into Bucky’s embrace.

“I’m still in love with you, you know,” Bucky said, nosing under Steve's ear, and Steve’s breath caught. “Three years since I last saw you, and I’m still unable to look away from you.”

“Still?” Steve said, wishing he didn’t sound so strangled, but it was too late now.

“Yes,” Bucky answered simply.

Feeling his knees go weak, Steve turned in Bucky’s arms. Though he wanted to cling to him all over again, he loosely wrapped his arms around his waist and buried his face in Bucky’s neck where his smell was strongest.

“Stay tonight?” Steve asked. “I won’t ask you for longer, but please? Tonight?”

“Nowhere else I would rather be.”


	14. Chapter 14

“What’s this?” Natasha asked, staring down at the thick envelope with her name written across the top in Steve’s neat flowing script. 

“Is this handwriting?” Tony blurted as Bucky handed over the one with ‘Stark’ on it. “Do you know calligraphy, Barnes?”

“They’re from Steve,” Bucky said, trying to keep his tone even.

“And there’s one for all of us?” Sam asked, frowning as Bucky handed him one as well.

Bucky looked down at his hand, at the handful of letters he was still holding and smiled a little, remembering how focused Steve had been on writing them, making them just right. Most likely, the trashcan by Steve’s desk still had the first drafts in it.

“Yeah,” he said, voice softer than usual. So much so, Nat’s eyes sharpened on him, but he didn’t pay her any attention. “He wrote to each of you.”

“Why would he…?” Natasha began.

Bucky wondered how much he could, or should say. On the one hand, he knew why Steve had wanted to write the letters. Yet, there had never been a need for Steve to have punished himself, isolated himself, the way he had. Bucky _was_ glad Steve was finally reaching out, even if he wasn’t all that pleased with the tone of the letters, but he never should have had to. Not after what he’d been through, not after staying on that last mission, or agreeing to dinner with everyone. Bucky understood social contracts, and Natasha and Tony had made one, one they’d not followed through on. Sam had, though Bucky suspected out of obligation rather than desire. Yet Steve was the one apologizing.

“To apologize, explain,” Bucky licked his lips, strangely nervous. His feelings towards the Avengers were a lot less charitable than before he’d found Steve again, but he did try to keep in mind that Steve could get horribly stubborn about things. “You should read it.”

From the corner of his eye, he watched as Natasha fiddled with the envelope he had handed her. Unlike Tony, who had immediately opened his letter and was rapidly reading it, or Sam who was carefully pulling the paper out of the envelope, she only turned it from one side to the other. She wasn’t looking at the paper in her hands, her gaze stuck somewhere in the middle distance. It occurred to Bucky then, that whatever had happened between Steve and Natasha, it must have been nasty as hell. He had literally shot her and broken her bones, but she didn’t seem to hold a grudge. With this… he had never seen her so pensive.

“You going to read it?” Bucky prompted.

Natasha focused on him, green eyes betraying nothing as she smiled her flirty, pretty, means-nothing smile.

“Of course.” 

It didn’t escape his attention that she hadn’t said _when_ she would read it.

“I’m taking Steve to Costa Rica,” Bucky said, letting some of the irritation he felt color his tone. “I would suggest you have done so by then.”

That got her attention, eyes going wide before she caught herself. It got everyone’s attention. Tony’s gaze snapped from the letter to Bucky; Sam paused and lowered it. They all stared at Bucky in shock and surprise.

“What?” Natasha asked, her voice hard that it was less a question and more of a demand.

“You’re taking him back to the place that effectively broke him?” Sam asked, his tone clearly shocked, a hint of anger coloring it. 

“That’s a bad idea,” Natasha echoed mildly; too mildly.

“Broke _both_ of you,” Sam said pointedly. “Why would you want to go back there?”

Bucky pressed his lips together as he thought about the question. It was true that their time in Costa Rica was what effectively broke Steve; shattered the remnants of his confidence and started his downward spiral. However, the sentiment that it broke Bucky as well took him aback. There hadn’t been enough of him to break then, hadn’t been until at least a year later.

“As the Winter Soldier,” Bucky said quietly, “I liked that mission. I liked Steve as a handler.” Bucky shrugged. “Yeah, I kind of hate that I shot him, but it wasn’t even the first time.” Frowning, Sam crossed an arm over his chest, resting his other on it before rubbing at his chin. It was a position he adopted when thinking over something he considered a difficult decision. “As for Steve,” he scrubbed at his scruffy cheek, reminding himself to shave soon, “he needs to face his demons.” 

“What did Steve have to say about that?” Tony asked, uncharacteristically the first thing he’d said since being handed the letter. 

“He didn’t like it, but his therapist agrees with me.” Bucky huffed and tossed his hair out of his eyes. “Why do you care, even?” 

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Bucky regretted them. He only vaguely knew what had happened between Steve and the rest of the Avengers. Steve didn’t go into detail of what he did remember, and Natasha would cut off any conversation about Steve entirely. Bucky was more than a little irritated about being left out when whatever had happened was so important to his teammates, his friend, and his lover.

“I don’t,” Tony declared after a pause just long enough to make him a liar. 

Looking to Natasha, Bucky found she wasn’t looking at him at all, her head tilted slightly away. The way the shadow played over her cheekbones, he guessed she was looking at the envelope resting innocently in her lap. She didn’t say a word, pretending not to be aware of the direction the conversation had taken.

Irritation rising, Bucky snapped, “You all seem quite aware he was broken, but don’t seem to care enough to give him any leniency for it. Read your damn letters and figure your shit out because I’m tired of how he questions himself, and everyone of you is part of that.”

“Oh, we were aware he was broken,” Natasha said, her tone a study in neutrality. “We were also aware that the absolute last people he wanted near him at that point were any of us.”

“So?” Bucky demanded. “ _He was broken_. He still _is_ broken, and because it’s Steve, that’s his greatest sin. Being human.”

“I wish him the very best in life,” Natasha said, getting to her feet. “I’m happy for you and him.” Her green eyes flicked to the letter, then at the table to her left, as she considered leaving it there. “But I was abused once, and I won’t be abused again.”

Bucky hissed like a broken kettle, shocked by Natasha’s words.

“No, you’ll just leave him for me to destroy, because you were _scared_ , because you wanted to be protected, and dislike the results.”

“Don’t try to guilt trip me,” Natasha began, but Bucky cut her off.

“You want him to hurt for what he did?” Bucky snapped. “He hurts. He won’t ever stop hurting. He fucked up, but so did the rest of us. He’s still paying for it. For what _I_ did, Natalia. He doesn’t trust himself, won’t take a single mission without someone else calling the shots, still has panic attacks, and punishes himself like I used to. At what point is it enough?”

Natasha drew herself up, arms casually wrapped about her middle.

“Why do you expect me to know what’s on his mind? I thought I knew him once and was obviously mistaken.” She exhaled. “I don’t want him to hurt. I don’t hate him, or am angry at him, or whatever else you might imagine.” The envelope twisted between her hands. “I once thought I could help him, that I knew what he needed, that I was good for him. I was clearly mistaken. I didn’t know what he needed and clearly wasn’t good for Steve. You are doing a much better job of it, clearly Steve is making progress with you.”

Bucky leaned forward, baring his teeth in a smile.

“If any of that were true, he wouldn’t have written you a letter, and you wouldn’t refuse to read it.”

“Bucky,” Sam began, his tone implying he wanted to put an end to this discussion.

Lifting his hand, he stopped Sam and turned on his heel. “We’ll be back in two weeks,” he called. No one said a word as he walked to the elevator, stepped inside, and glared as the doors closed. “Whatever happened then, it’s time to put it to bed and start goddamn living again, you miserable bunch. I fucking _did_.”

The last thing Bucky heard from the room was a gentle snort, probably from Tony, but chose to take it as a good sign. He knew he had pressured Nat. When faced with an attack, she’d dug her heels in. He should have expected it. Still, maybe something good would come from this conversation. Maybe it would start them thinking, let the Avengers drain the wounds they had let fester for three years.

\----

When Bucky entered Steve’s condo, he twitched as a shadow detached from the wall and moved in front of him. Oracle was as quiet as Natasha, and though she never _quite_ snuck up on him, she could leave him on edge. Not that the teenage girl much cared. 

“What?” Bucky snapped, maybe a bit too harshly, but he didn’t see Steve so they weren’t going to be playing too nice with each other. And she _had_ startled him.

“He’s been on the treadmill since you left,” the girl said, a hint of accusation in her tone. 

“And you didn’t pull the plug?” Bucky growled, heading toward the stairs. He’d been gone for nearly two hours, which meant Steve was punishing himself again.

“I tried,” Oracle huffed. “He threatened to leave the house instead. At least this way, we know where he is and you can stop him.”

Bucky growled, low and angry. It was just so frustrating sometimes. How many times had he told Steve that he wasn’t to blame? That he didn’t need to be punished for what he did or what he’d done? It didn’t seem to matter; Steve always found a way. Always found a way to make himself hurt. Bucky was already frustrated with how badly the letter delivery had gone. Now his worry about Steve spiked, edging quickly into anger he had to swallow. There was no use getting angry at Steve.

At the sound of his footfalls on the treadmill growing louder as he headed up the stairs. It wouldn’t work, wouldn’t change anything. Bucky just wanted Steve to be happy. It was easiest on the days when Steve wanted that too. Then there were the bad days, like today, when Steve just wanted to burn himself out.

At the top of the stairs, Bucky followed the rapid _thump, thump, thump_ , to the small workout room Steve had set up in what was supposed to be the office. Thankfully the door was unlocked - the last time Steve had locked it, they’d had to replace the door frame - and Bucky pushed inside. He could feel his arm revving up. It had learned quickly and, if he used it offensively once, it would go into ready mode whenever he was in the same place again. Steve was running full out, the machine set to its highest setting. Sweat was sticking his tight workout shirt to his back in a dark triangle, making his hair dark, curling, and sticking to his face. The scent of it was thick in the room, and Bucky’s nostrils flared, his mind going straight to sex. He liked the way Steve smelled when he was hot and sweaty, stretched all over Bucky.

To Bucky’s surprise, Steve glanced over his shoulder, met his gaze, and then put the treadmill into cool down mode. The high whine of abused machine parts faded as Steve snatched up the towel hanging over the treadmill bar and dried off his face and neck.

“Do I want to know how it went?” Steve asked.

Bucky huffed.

“Not as bad as you’re imagining,” he said, coming to stand to the right of the machine. “Most of them opened the letters immediately after I handed them out.”

“But bad,” Steve guessed, glancing at him, gaze sliding over Bucky’s face in that way that saw more than Bucky was yet to be comfortable with. “Do I want to know?”

“Give them time,” Bucky insisted, before changing the subject, “Oracle says you’ve been in here since I left.”

It was Steve’s turn to huff.

“It’s been months. Her name is Sakura; I can’t believe you still call her Oracle.”

“That’s only because you vetoed ‘The Creature’ and ‘The Thing’,” Bucky murmured, watching the way Steve’s chest was still rising sharply after his extensive run. “And you’re deflecting.”

“I could have left,” Steve stated, using the same logic on Bucky as he had on Oracle. Unfortunately for Steve, Bucky wasn’t a seventeen year old girl.

“Threatening to make it worse doesn’t make it better,” Bucky growled. 

“I’m stopping?” Steve offered.

Leaning both his elbows on the railing, Bucky sighed, “Fair point, and I’m proud of you for that, but you shouldn’t have come in here at all. There’s nothing you should be punished for.”

When Steve looked away and bit his lip, Bucky wanted to punch something. His own therapist - whom he had conveniently forgotten to see last week - would have been proud that he didn’t.

“Say it, Steve,” Bucky demanded. “Or I’ll call your therapist.”

“I hate that you met her,” Steve mumbled.

Bucky grinned, all teeth and attitude. 

“We have people in common,” he said, “It makes for a good conversation.”

Though he rolled his eyes, Steve didn’t argue, or make him repeat his demand. He just said, “I do not deserve to be punished,” in a flat, monotone. It didn’t sound like he believed it, but Dr. Thorne, his therapist, said he would, eventually.

“And what do you deserve?” Bucky prompted when Steve stopped.

Another eye roll, but, “To be happy,” rolled off Steve’s tongue with a little more feeling. Before Bucky could say anything, he stopped the treadmill and let it carrying him backward to the ground. The towel fell to the floor, then Steve crossed his arms, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and lifted it over his head. For a long, glorious moment, Bucky had the perfect view of Steve’s chest, the muscles bunching and bulging, glistening with sweat in the fluorescent lighting. Bucky kind of wanted to lick him. A lot.

“Steve?” Bucky asked, because as much as he loved Steve without clothes on, the behavior was admittedly odd.

“I deserve to be happy,” Steve answered, smirking at Bucky as he dropped his sweats, letting them pool about his feet, now standing there in his underwear. It was a mouthwatering sight. Steve’s muscles were solid, hard. His cock was visible through the tight white fabric, soft and long, tucked neatly away. Bucky’s hand twitched with the need to reach out and feel the hot flesh. 

“At this point,” Bucky said slowly, “I’m hoping happy is an euphemism for sex.”

Steve actually laughed, which was a great sign, and came closer. He boxed Bucky against the wall, pressing his hard body against Bucky’s. Responding eagerly, his cock leapt to attention as he laid his hands on Steve’s hips, keeping him near. It wasn’t every day that Steve initiated sex between them, and Bucky was going to savor the moment.

“It’s not,” Steve murmured, voice low and husky, “but it does make me happy. Being with you makes me happy.”

If Steve hadn’t grabbed Bucky by the ass with both hands and kiss him for all his was worth then, Bucky would have melted a little. It did make his heart skip embarrassingly at how much in love he was with this man, even as he moaned and sucked on Steve’s tongue. 

Steve pushed and Bucky went willingly, pleasantly surprised and aroused, as Steve reached for him. He gasped a little at the way Steve’s wide, hot palms dragged over his body. When Steve reached for Bucky’s jacket he tilted his shoulders back, making it easier for Steve to disrobe him.

_Combat mode?_ The question came in low and grumbly, somehow sounding put out. Bucky huffed into Steve’s mouth, suddenly amused and grasping for enough control to send the arm a message. It wasn’t easy with those large palms worming their way under his shirt.

_No_ , he managed with an effort. _Not combat_.

Steve kissed harder, his tongue not shy at all about taking what he wanted. Bucky moaned helplessly when he felt Steve stuff his hand down the back of his pants, and he grinned into the kiss. He couldn’t remember the last time Steve was so open and eager, and it felt so good to be wanted. The hand gripping his ass beneath his jeans was a clear indication of that, and Bucky was just as eager to give Steve whatever he wanted.

The plates of his metal arm resettled sharply enough they made Steve jump and break the kiss. _Coupling mode engaged_ , the arm grumbled up at him before going silent. Laughing, Steve glanced down at it, then looked to Bucky, grabbed him by the neck, and yanked him back into their kiss. Groaning, Bucky let Steve steer him, walking him backward until the back of his legs came in contact with something cool and metal.

Steve didn’t stop, pushing forward and Bucky let him, let himself fall, and trusted Steve to catch him. He wasn’t disappointed. The hand not on the back of his neck wrapped about his waist and both lowered him carefully to lie on what Bucky assumed was the bench for the bench-press bar. He didn’t really care _where_ they were, so long as he could spread his legs wide and let Steve settle between them. 

“Steve,” Bucky gasped, tugging at Steve to get him closer again. “What do you want?”

His loved looked him up and down, a light flush staining his cheeks, pupils blown wide.

“You,” Steve murmured. “I always want you.”

Bucky grinned, leaning back to let Steve look his fill. When Steve reached for his pants, Bucky raised his hips to help Steve pull them off. He laughed a little when he felt Steve’s hands on his thighs, spreading them to get a better view. It wasn’t like Bucky needed incentive to let Steve between his legs. 

Instead of moving closer, Steve leaned against him and sank to his knees. Instantly Bucky jerked up to his elbows, his mouth going dry. He was so stunned he was breathless, as he reached out to touch the inviting curve of Steve’s shoulder, sliding his palm over the firm muscle. Steve was all golden skin and sweaty hair, his broad body somehow folded to fit between Bucky’s legs, shoulders wide enough to press against his thighs. Steve’s fingers slid under his waistband, then pulled his underwear down just far enough he could wrap a hand around Bucky’s cock. He didn't tease, didn’t make a production of it, just opened his mouth and swallowed as much of Bucky's hardening length as he could.

Cursing loudly, Bucky’s flesh hand clenched spasmodically around the thick swell of Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s mouth was wet and hot, tongue pushing his cock against the roof of his mouth as Steve sucked, loud and messy, taking Bucky in and licking what lay against his tongue. The hand wrapped around his cock slid down to gather his balls and massage them, sending further bolts of pleasure through his body. Bucky got so hard he ached, his head spinning as he tried to fix this memory in his mind.

“Steve,” he rasped, staring with helpless adoration at the man between his knees. Steve didn’t pull off, just hummed, eyes crinkling as he looked up at Bucky questioningly. All Bucky could say was, “Jesus, Steve, you’re so damn pretty,” because he _was_ ,, but also this was the first time he’d had his cock in Steve’s mouth since Costa Rica.

Somehow Steve grinned about the thick dick he had in his mouth. Then he did something with his tongue and twisted the hand on Bucky’s balls, and Bucky’s elbows flew off the bench. He fell back with a thump and a shout, eyes rolling back into his head. After everything, the separation, the guilt, the recovery, Bucky had forgotten how incredible Steve’s mouth was. He had _forgotten_ that it had taken the Soldier apart, stripped his defenses, and left him like putty in Steve’s hands. He’d had his mouth on other parts of Bucky in Costa Rica too, but Bucky couldn’t focus on that. Not with Steve’s tongue performing tricks that sent zipping bolts of pleasure through his body, and his hand squeezing, massaging, rolling just right. Seemingly without any effort, Steve could play his body like a master, and if it hadn’t taken every thought from Bucky’s head, it would have terrified him.

“Steve,” he moaned, lost to the pleasure, pawing clumsily at Steve, needing, wanting to touch his lover any way he could. “Please, ah, whatever you want.” He was babbling promises, not even thinking about what he was saying.

Steve pulled away from his cock without warning, making Bucky whine.

“I want you to fuck me,” Steve declared, pressing his cheek against Bucky's thigh. “Here, now.” Then he bit Bucky’s thigh hard enough to hurt, and Bucky hissed in pain. “I was thinking about it, while I ran. About you coming up those stairs, all attitude and power.” Steve paused between words to deliver another bite, gentler this time. Then another, drawing a slow line of them down the inside of Bucky’s thigh. “I thought about you pulling me off that treadmill, bending me over the nearest equipment, and just giving it to me as hard as you pleased.” 

“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky gasped, so turned on he was giddy. “Yes, oh god, yes. Please,” he added, just to be safe. Steve changing his mind would be horrible right now.

Bucky couldn't stand the teasing any more. He wrapped his metal hand around the back of Steve’s head and pulled him up.

“I don’t have any lube,” Bucky groaned, ridiculously angry at himself for not carrying some on him right then. “I swear, I’m going to start carrying it anywhere we go.” He barely had the time to register the way Steve’s face fell before continued. “I’m going to get to the bedroom and, help me god, I’m going to fuck you stupid.”

Without giving Steve time to react, Bucky sprang up from his position, pulling Steve with him. Bending over, he hoisted Steve over his shoulder, his metal arm around Steve’s knees. Steve laughed, face hanging close enough to Bucky’s ass that he felt Steve’s teeth sink in a moment later.

“Hey!” Bucky yelled, dancing in place, trying to dislodge Steve. “Don’t damage the goods before you’ve even used them!”

Steve laughed, stopped biting him, but it was only to slap both his hands over his cheeks and squeeze. 

“Giddy up, then.”

Bucky snorted, moving towards the door before he realised his cock was hanging out for all to see. “Fuck,” he muttered.

“What?” Steve asked, still groping Bucky’s ass as if it was the first time he saw it.

“The ass you are appreciating?” Bucky drawled, “Or you want your Oracle to appreciate it too?”

Steve sighed deeply and squirmed on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Way to kill the mood,” he grumbled. “Put me down. We’ll put on pants and go upstairs like the adults were pretending to be.”

Bucky snorted, but bent over again so Steve could slide back to the floor.

“If you’d bought some lube down for your training, we wouldn’t even need to move,” Bucky teased while he hunted for his pants and started dragging them on as fast as he could.

“Oh, so it’s my fault?” Steve huffed, retrieving his own clothing and pulling it on as fast as he’d taken it off. “I’ll try to keep that in mind next time I don’t know I even want you.”

“Just assume you always want me and we will be peachy.”

Still laughing, Steve grabbed Bucky and pulled him into a deep, heated kiss which proved the mood was not dead at all. Bucky slid his hands down Steve’s powerful back to his perky ass. It was unreal how perfect it was, small and round when the rest of him was so _big_. The cheeks fit so perfectly into Bucky’s palms. He pushed into Steve’s body, enjoying the heat of it, the power. Steve’s pecs pressed against his chest, heaving with every breath and rubbing against Bucky’s shirt. Bucky’s breath caught with just how much he wanted Steve. Before, now, always… Bucky had wanted him so badly. Only now he had it, had Steve, had permission to touch and feel, to have this man however he wanted. 

“Come on,” Steve moaned into Bucky’s mouth, “Let’s make a run for it.”

\----

The club was mostly empty when Bucky finally got there after several bouts of sex and the usual stilted, slightly uncomfortable dinner. The evening was still young enough that most of the usuals were absent. His Zaris was an underground club in more ways than one as it was literally underground. The rundown building he’d purchased used to be an old vinegar factory some fifty years ago. The upper levels were basically unusable, too far gone to do anything without rebuilding it entirely. But underneath, in the basement, Bucky had discovered a treasure trove, a half-crumbling fake wall that led to almost three levels of a hidden basement. 

He didn’t know the story behind the space, but suspected it was built by smugglers considering how they were close to the docks. The high stone walls were in a much better shape than the building above, and all he had needed to do was clean up, put the equipment in, and he had a club. Because it was underground nobody above heard the noise. A few holes here and there, and he had more than one connection to the tunnels running underneath the city. It was the perfect place for people like him, people enhanced and different, to congregate without Big Brother paying too much attention.

Bucky had converted the two lowest levels for his customers. Both had space dedicated to dancing and a long bar, with tables stuck under the walls, leaving the middle of the large rooms empty. There were bullseyes on the walls, as sooner or later somebody always got drunk and wanted to show off their ability to throw sharp objects at cardboard and paper. Nobody minded that the walls were stone and brick, that all the cables ran exposed over the high vaulted ceiling. All the usuals wanted was a place to play, dance, and drink in peace. A place nobody told them to take off their masks, or asked their names. Bucky didn't even make it a rule to get people to give up their weapons. He knew well enough somebody would sneak one in anyway. He only had a few standing rules, which were printed and stuck on every entrance to the club:

Pay cash  
Leave your troubles at the door  
Don’t touch the women   
Police yourself 

The last one was particularly important because even God wouldn’t save them if Bucky had to come into the club because of trouble.

For the most part, things had worked out well. He’d had to hire a few heavies to throw out the passed-out drunks, but after making examples out of those who broke the rules, people mostly seemed to just be happy to have a place where they could socialise and get drunk. 

“Oh, Boss, you look sour today.”

Bucky looked up from the tablet they used to keep up their inventory to see Jenny leaning on the bar across from him. Jenny was the oldest of his employees, besides himself, and she was an effective manager. At forty-five years old, she shouldn’t have looked as old as she did, but sex work and years of drug use had done her no favors. 

“Hey, Jenn,” he mentioned to the tablet. “I see nobody’s restocked yet.”

Jenny sighed.

“Star is doing it now,”

When he noticed the vibration coming from the lower floor, he asked in surprise, “Things are already picking up?” 

“We have a huge party that started hours ago on the lowest floor. The dance floor is busy as hell, and they’re drinking _all_ of our vodka.”

“Good party,” Bucky muttered, his mood not improving despite hearing the books would assuredly be in the black. The trip to Costa Rica was still on his mind; he wasn’t yet sure if it was a good thing. He thought it would be for Steve, for him to overwrite the worst of those memories with something new and better. For his part, it still stung that all those little moments Bucky had cherished were nothing more than a nightmare for Steve. He hoped they could have a fresh start on an even plane, but what terrified Bucky most was getting it wrong again. Of cherishing a memory he couldn’t share with Steve. It ate at him, the fact all they had survived, they couldn’t share a single good memory in all that time had passed since he left Brooklyn.

These thoughts created a subtle thrum that lived under Bucky’s skin, one that made it hard to sleep, hard to relax. He didn’t want to bring it up with Steve again; they had already talked it to death. Talking didn't change what had happened or how it had affected them so differently.

Today’s failure with the Avengers also lay heavy on his mind. Once he had gotten some distance and calmed down, Bucky had realised that getting angry achieved nothing. They had their issues, just like he had his own, and he had fought on Steve’s side when he wasn’t even sure what that side was. Whatever it was, it was between Steve and the Avengers. Aggressively hating them was stupid, a way to burn the bridges. Nobody was in the right here, and Bucky wanted to smack his head against something at his own temper. 

A thump and Jenny placed a tumbler in front of Bucky with something amber inside. 

“Honey, your sour face is gonna melt the bar. Have a drink, go dance.”

Bucky didn’t think about it too hard, just tossed the drink back in one go. He enjoyed the burn and the taste, but wished it had more effect. He could get drunk, but it would take nearly poisoning his body and wouldn’t be a pleasant experience anyway. He licked his lips and thought about dancing. It was probably the only thing Hydra hadn’t touched. The skill so far removed from fighting as to be totally useless for the Winter Soldier. Well, at least Bucky Barnes could have some fun with it.

The spiral staircase had replaced the old wooden stairs - which were nothing more than a deathtrap - gleamed when he glanced its way. His staff kept everything nice and clean, even the staircase, so the metal reflected the multi-colored strobe lights from the floor below. The thump of the bass reverberated through the metal railing as he took his drink and headed down. The rhythm of the music was fast, making his heart rate rise, his muscles loosen up in anticipation, and he found himself grinning even before he joined the throng of people dancing on the lowest floor. He was as anonymous here, could let himself enjoy the simple act of movement. 

Two girls on the floor were giggling and dancing together, casting eyes on various men. They looked inviting, so Bucky slid up to them with a grin and offered a hand to each. There were always people willing to dance with him, helping him relax and forget anything but the rhythm and the heat of the dancefloor. He would spend hours here, forgetting about the stress of the day - Oracle, the Avengers, Steve’s issues, returning to Costa Rica - and fall into bed exhausted, no more thoughts racing around his brain, no dreams to trouble his sleep. It was the only therapy he needed.

\----

When the sight of the cliffs slipped into view, Steve felt every muscle tense. He tried to hide it, but a moment later Bucky was reaching across the aisle and taking his hands. It stole his focus from the view, the cliffs that haunted some of his nightmares, and let him focus on those hands. Hands that were touching him so gently, carefully, one metal and one flesh. They were real, were present, not part of a distant, horrific past.

“Breathe, Stevie,” Bucky encouraged.

“I am breathing,” Steve huffed. “Just, guess we’re here.”

“It’s gonna be fine,” Bucky smiled at him, or rather his eyes crinkled and lips twitched upwards at the corners. “We need a vacation, and we need some closure.”

“You know I won’t find this relaxing.” Steve glanced out the window. “At all.”

“Give it a chance?” Bucky asked, the question that he’d used every time since Steve had agreed.

Steve glanced sideways at Bucky. It was such a strange thing to watch him look more and more relaxed the closer they got to the cabin. For Steve it was the opposite. The closer they got, the more he felt trapped in his own skin, itchy and anxious, the worst of his memories surfacing no matter how many times he tried to bat them away.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

The shadow of a smile became more real, taking years and pain from Bucky’s face. It was still small, nothing like the smiles of their youth, but Steve didn’t think he cared anymore. The smile was _real_ , Bucky was happy, and that meant so much more.

“Then cheer up, Stevie.” Bucky leaned towards him. “It’s a vacation, this time. We have our phones, lots of supplies, plenty of people know where we are, and might even come to check up on us. And it’s a beautiful place, especially for a pair of super soldiers that don’t have to worry about bug bites, or any other unpleasantries a jungle has to offer.”

Steve suppressed a sigh, not wanting to be disrespectful, but not able to cheer up either. Of all the places they’d talked about going back during the war, jungles hadn’t been on the list. Yeah, the place was objectively beautiful, but so was Paris, and the beaches of Greece. 

“There are so many waterfalls around,” Bucky kept talking, oblivious to Steve’s inner thoughts. “You saw them, right? We can hike to each one of them, you can draw, and I can swim. We can also visit the cliffs, see who can climb down faster. Maybe we can cook something good over a fire and just laze around all day. No missions, no ill behaved teenagers,” Steve snorted because Bucky really couldn’t hide his continued dislike of his adopted daughter, “or adults around. It’s going to be great!”

The enthusiasm in Bucky’s voice at last made Steve smile. It wasn’t like he expressed himself like this often. Certainly it was more words from Bucky than he was used to hearing at a time without Steve’s prompting.

“You’re really excited about this, aren’t you?” Steve murmured.

Bucky glanced down at the wide expanse of jungle below them and nodded. 

“Yeah.” He turned to Steve once more. “This place… it was so different to me. I was almost free. You expected so little of me, just to wait, and at the same time respected my opinion. It was… before and after… those were the worst times. This was like being in the eye of the storm - unexpectedly peaceful. I know you see those memories as the worst, but to me…” He exhaled loudly. “I wouldn’t have tried so hard later on if I hadn’t had those memories.” He turned to look at the jungle again. “So yeah, I am excited. I want to see how this place feels from my current perspective.”

Tugging at their linked hands, Steve got Bucky’s attention again and then leaned across the gap to kiss him. Nothing frisky, just a quick press of lips, but enough to show what he was feeling just then. How knowing, even if it had been horrible for him, he had helped Bucky survive even a little made his heart swell because the thought of Bucky giving up was crushing.

“I think most people misunderstand how Hydra created the Soldier,” Bucky said unexpectedly once Steve had sat back. “I mean, yeah, there was torture and my memories were all gone for the most part, but it wasn’t the reason why it was so goddamn hard to leave them and then to stay away. If they’d only hurt me it would have been a no brainer, even animals know to avoid pain.” Bucky shook his head. ”It was the patterns. Everything had a beginning, middle, and an end. There were almost… rituals. Rules of behavior. Everything I did was structured. All the patterns were repeated until they were in my blood. It created a sense of… order, safety even. After a while, it became impossible to think about anything except the behavioral patterns I had been taught. Thinking beyond them? Impossible. 

“When we were here, you outwardly followed the patterns of behavior a handler should obey, but in reality you broke them. That, your perversion of the structures created by Hydra, let me know there was something else to life. It convinced me there were other choices that could be made.”

Squeezing Bucky’s hands, Steve brought them up to his lips and kissed each knuckle. Bucky let him, just watching him, the smile once again just at the corners of his lips and eyes. In a way, it was hard to look at Bucky. He had been through so much and come out the other side; survived a fire that would have consumed a weaker man. Yet even now he didn’t take credit for it but laid it at Steve’s feet.

“You amaze me,” Steve said, surprised by how rough his own voice sounded. “I’ll try, okay? We’ll do everything you want, and I’ll try to stay out of my head.”

Bucky tugged at his hand a little, “You better. It’s a vacation; I expect lots of attention.”

“You’ll get it,” Steve promised.

“I better. I packed lube in every bag,” Bucky muttered, probably still grumpy about the lack of lube in Steve’s gym. He hadn’t let Steve hear the end of it since they’d had to run to the bedroom.

“We are almost at the coordinates,” their pilot declared in slightly accented English. “I’m going to look for a place to land.”

Steve looked down at the greenery visible through the window on his side. The cabin was still there, untouched by time. It was almost picturesque, situated as it was on the bluff overlooking the ocean. Their commercial helicopter circled the area, the pilot looking for a safe spot to land, and Steve stared at the cream-colored cabin. At least half of it’s walls were underground and grass, moss, and shrubs grew on the roof, so it blended in with the lush greenery of the surrounding jungle. The back porch was so overgrown, even Steve’s enhanced eyesight wasn’t enough to pick out the details.

The pilot sat the helicopter down with barely a bump, and Steve was impressed by his skill. A moment later, Bucky was unstrapping himself, yanking open the door, and jumping out. He didn’t stop to take any of their baggage, just started walking, quick and crouched, towards the tree line of the small clearing. There was something disturbing in the smoothness of his gait beneath the rotors, the way he didn’t even shake his head to clear his hair from his face. Steve froze for a moment, staring as Bucky disappeared into the trees. Logically, he knew Bucky was only doing the perimeter check; their combined background and careers made them targets. Still, he was left feeling uncomfortable as Bucky shed all the vestiges of his lover and best friend without so much as a word.

“Was your friend motion sick?” the pilot asked, confused, turning to Steve with questioning eyes.

Steve cleared his throat and shook his head. 

“No, he’s just checking if everything is okay. No animals and such.” 

The pilot snorted quietly and Steve swore he heard a derisive, “Gringos,” before the pilot said, “No animal would stay in the area after I land this bird.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve shrugged, thinking of the two legged kind of animal, and climbed down. “I’ll get our stuff and you can be on your way.”

“Sure,” the pilot twisted back around and began checking his instruments. “I have your number. I will be back in ten days, my office will confirm three days earlier, and then on the day of the departure with you in case you want to change anything.”

“Great,” Steve said, trying to put some feeling into it, but failing. The pilot didn’t say anything if he noticed, and Steve gathered up his and Bucky’s duffles, tossing them over his shoulder. When he turned around, Bucky was nowhere in sight. There was just the cabin and the _whump, whump_ of the rotors. 

Taking a fortifying breath, Steve headed toward the cabin in a crouch until he was free of the blades. He didn’t watch as they began to speed up again, the pilot preparing for take off. His gaze was fixed on the cabin as he slowly approached, staring that the place he’d done… so much. The place he’d gotten and lost Bucky. The place that had shaped the last three years of his life. 

Stepping down to the porch, Steve froze, staring at the indentation in the stucco to the side of the door. Even after all this time, the damage was clear, the concave cracking in a circle around a point, the dent as big as Bucky’s back. 

“I didn’t realise we were so enthusiastic.” 

The voice came from behind his back and scared the hell out of him, making Steve jump and whirl around. Bucky was a bit disheveled, a few leaves stuck in his hair and a faint sheen of sweat on his skin, but he was smiling, eyes bright and beautiful. Already this place was doing wonders for him.

“Don't sneak up on me like that!” Steve chided, trying to calm his heart.

“I wasn’t sneaking,” Bucky said defensively, looking mulish. 

“Yeah, right, like you’d run a perimeter stomping around.” Steve shoved his free hand through his hair. He glanced at the indentation and bit his lip. “You were so gorgeous.” Steve’s voice came out soft enough it was nearly eaten by the sound of the departing helicopter, but Bucky was focused on him and would hear, or read his lips. “You kept trying to shut it out, but when you were beautiful when you’d let go.”

Bucky blushed and looked away, shifting his hands restlessly until he finally stuffed them into the pockets of his cargo pants. Looking at him again, Steve smiled and then turned toward the door.

“You’re still beautiful, you know,” he said as he opened the door.

The inside of the cabin was the worse for wear, but clean due to the services they’d hired in the village down the cliff. There was only so much one could do to clean up an ancient home, however. A broken chair was shoved in a corner, but three still sat around the cracked plastic kitchen table. Absently, Steve wondered if the kitchen appliances would work.

“Your chair is here,” Bucky called and Steve followed the sound of his voice to the living room and the wide window that looked out over the cliff and the ocean. Bucky was standing by the chair, the one Steve had sat in to draw, and Steve found himself pleasantly surprised to find himself happy to see it.

“Think you might spend some time sitting this time around?” Steve teased.

Bucky turned just enough to look at Steve from the corner of his eye. 

“If I have incentive enough.” 

Steve took Bucky in, uncertain what he meant. His shoulders were thrown back and held low, body language open. The tilt of his hips and the way Bucky stood was drawing Steve’s eyes to his exposed neck, the tendons standing out in sharp relief, to his shoulders and his hips. Steve looked away, because it was an invitation, one he wasn’t willing to respond to.

“We should see if the appliances work,” Steve said, turning around even as he set the duffle bags against the wall. Behind him Bucky shifted, but didn’t say anything, and Steve was grateful. 

“They should,” Bucky said after a moment. “Hydra made this to last, and they had a knack for long term plans.”

“Still, can’t help to know now instead of when we try to cook something,” Steve called. 

In the kitchen, it helped to check the fridge, the stove, and verify they had all the necessary cooking implements. Took the edge off the crawling under Steve’s skin. Still, not expecting the contact, he jumped when Bucky’s arms wrapped around his waist before he set his chin on Steve’s shoulder. It was nice, though, and Steve leaned back into Bucky’s warmth, sighing a little as he ran his hands along Bucky’s forearms. The left tickled his palm as the plates shifted, forming soft, skin-like scales.

“You going to cook something?”

“Maybe,” Steve said before turning around in Bucky’s arms. Wrapping his own about Bucky’s waist, Steve laid his head on Bucky’s metal shoulder and sighed, pushing the tension and anxiety out with the air. Bucky’s metal arm tightened about his waist and the flesh hand slid into his hair, sending shivers down his back, and Steve smiled. No matter how hard this was going to be, no matter what demons it drove to the surface of his mind, Steve knew he could get through this so long as he had Bucky at his side.


	15. Chapter 15

“I want to go to the waterfall.”

Bucky looked up from the kitchen table where he had been sharpening his knives. All evening, Steve had been particularly quiet. He’d stuck to Bucky like glue, always in the same room, but always keeping busy. There was a lot to do to make the cabin comfortable, and it was obvious Steve disliked being here, so he had left him alone. Honestly, he hadn’t expected Steve to want to do anything here, at least not this soon.

“When?”

Turning from the window above the sink, Steve met Bucky’s gaze and smiled. It was a small thing, hesitant, and Bucky loved him for it. He was trying so damn hard, fighting his own demons, and trying to accept Bucky’s view of their life here.

“Can we go now?”

“It’s almost dark,” Bucky cautioned, but not because he was against the idea.

“We don’t have to-” Steve started and Bucky surged to his feet, cutting him off. Two steps took him to Steve’s side where he wrapped his hands around Steve’s slim hips.

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Bucky pulled Steve close. “We might get lost, or their could be predators, or-”

Steve snorted.

“You never get lost and you _are_ the predator.”

That was a perfectly fair description. Bucky grinned.

“So, waterfall, then?”

“I did bring my swimsuit.”

As he took a step back, Bucky reached around and smacked Steve’s firm ass. 

“Always taking away my fun,” Bucky shook his head. Steve hadn’t even thought about skinny-dipping. There was so much fun that Steve was missing out on. It was going to be an endless battle to get Steve to loosen up.

“There is nothing you could pay me to go swimming naked in a freshwater pool with god-only-knows what crawling around in it.”

“Supersoldier, my ass,” Bucky looked Steve up and down, imagining him naked and wet under the moonlit waterfall. 

“Supersoldiers aren’t immune to leeches. You want leeches on your balls?” Steve spread his arms. “You go right ahead. I’m already marinating in bug spray; I don’t need _more_ problems.”

“You talk as if I’m not stuck to your balls like a leech anyway.”

Bending down to lace up his shoes, Bucky sniffed. As if he would let any leech close enough to Steve’s balls to even take a sniff, much less a bite.

“Bucky, you are _nothing_ like a leech.

“You telling me I don’t suck enough?” Bucky asked with overplayed offence. Steve just rolled his eyes and started from the kitchen. “Maybe you want me to bite more?”

“Don’t you bite my nuts!” Steve hollered from down the hall, and Bucky laughed.

\----

The trek through the jungle was quieter than Bucky had expected, but no matter how many times he twisted around around to look, Steve wasn’t moping. His head was revolving like a pivot, but he just seemed curious. The heat was down to a manageable level as evening set in, but the rapidly dwindling sunlight wasn’t a problem for either of them. Bucky suspected his own eyes were modified, his vision turning oddly grey, but quite detailed at night. Steve’s eyes were just preternaturally efficient, like the rest of him. They saw differently, but right now, Bucky was just glad he could match Steve step for step. Normal people probably wouldn't risk trekking into the jungle so close to nightfall, but this was one of the few instances where being full of god-knows-what chemicals actually let them enjoy life. 

The jungle was quieter than the city. Not that there weren't noises, but the constant crunching of dry and dying foliage under their boots and the endless screeching of insects and animals marking their territory was a lot more restful than the constant rush of the city. Civilization was loud and tiring. The electricity buzzed in the walls, neighbors and pedestrians created a constant hum of conversation, and there were cars driving to and fro at all hours. There was nothing natural about city noise; it was artificial and exhausting. This noise, the wind rustling the leaves on the tall trees, felt restful. 

The green was stunning, the intensity of the color making Bucky’s breath catch. And the scents. He loved how the jungle smelled; the dampness, the mold, the vibrancy of green things, and sweet scent of rare flowers creating a unique fragrance that could not be recreated anywhere. And the sun; Bucky could swear he could taste the sun on his tongue, in the very air he breathed. 

They haven’t seen any big predators around, but even if he had, Bucky wouldn’t attack. With their enhancements, outrunning any creature wouldn't be a problem, but the last thing Bucky wanted was to bring destruction to this place. Part of him thought Steve wouldn’t let him, either, not with how he’d finally started to relax the moment they entered the trees.

Finally the game trail got thicker and the distant sound of crashing water became a roar. The air filled with the scent and feel of water, and Bucky had to put his machete to use, cutting down the underbrush growing lushly at the edge of the river and the pool the waterfall fell into. Steve followed close behind, a hand on Bucky’s back so he wouldn’t feel the need to look away from his work and check on him. 

The last green, leafy branch fell, and Steve inhaled sharply behind Bucky. Bucky completely agreed. The waterfall hadn’t changed at all, and it’s beauty was striking. The sunset light was just enough to cast a rainbow through the mists tossed into the air, as gallons of water splashed into the pool at their feet. The rocks glistened and sparkled, orange in the fading light, and green where soft moss clung, defying gravity. A swift current kept mold and algae from growing on the surface, but wasn’t strong enough to pose any danger. 

Twin thumps indicated Steve was setting down their small packs, and Bucky turned in time to watch his lover reaching his arms behind his back, tugging his shirt up and over his head. 

Bucky waited for him to unbutton his pants before barking, “Wait!”

Steve froze on instinct, body tense as he listened for whatever had triggerd Bucky’s shout. It was enough time for Bucky to sidle up beside Steve and plunge his hand into the open pants. Steve jumped a mile. Smirking, Bucky took hold of his balls, snuggled in Steve’s surprisingly tight swimwear.

“Just checking for leeches,” he said seriously as he felt Steve’s ribcage expand, probably to deliver some tongue lashing. 

“Bucky,” Steve sighed and crossed his arms, but didn’t pull out of Bucky’s hand, “I haven’t been in the water yet.”

“Just checking the perimeter.” 

Bucky traced the shape of Steve’s cock and balls, squashed by the Speedo, trying to feel every inch with his fingertips. Steve sighed, but Bucky felt his dick twitch against his palm.

“I am not the perimeter. Get your hand out of my pants.”

“Everything seems secure.” 

Pulling his hand slowly away, he then raised it to his face and sniffed, catching the scent of Steve’s musk and sweat before it was gone in the intensely smelling jungle air. Steve rolled his eyes harder, but he was blushing now.

Grumbling, “Incorrigible,” he shucked off his sweats and piled them atop his pack. 

_Water_.

The arm recalibrated sharply, the scales closing up with a series of sharp clacks. Bucky shook his arm to dispel the sense of tightness that came with the arm entering the water-resistant mode.

_Unnecessary water_. 

The second message was definitely more pointed than the first one. 

_Yes_ , he thought back at it. _We are going swimming_.

The memory of the solid ground flashed before his eyes, the sensation of it under his feet sending tiny shivers from his feet.

_Unnecessary_. 

The thought was more insistent this time, nearly petulant. Bucky bit his lower lip to stop himself from laughing out loud. Ever since the arm had started talking to him, it was growing more of a personality. It was especially vocal about anything it didn't like, and water was definitely one of those things.

_It’s fun_. Bucky pulled off his own shirt and knelt to unlace his boots. 

_No combat_ , the arm communicated mournfully.

_Yeah, yeah I am a lousy host. No combat and water. Poor you_.

“Bucky?” Steve called, and Bucky found he’d been standing there talking with his arm, while Steve had walked into the pool. He floated in the middle, away from the worst of the waterfall’s splashing, shoulders visible above the dark water.

_Coupling mode?_ the arm asked hopefully, the plates loosening their tight clench.

This time Bucky didn't even try to fight the smile. His life was ridiculous, but he couldn't help being happy about it.

_Let's work on that in the water_ , he assured the arm and finished undressing. He didn’t bother with swimwear.

“You okay?” Steve called. 

“I was just giving those leeches a headstart!” he yelled and ran into the pool, cannonballing into the shadows and splashing water every which way.

Yelping, Steve leapt backwards, trying to avoid Bucky’s wave. Before he could get far, Bucky breeched, like a whale, in Steve’s direction, hitting the water again. The splash from the whole length of his body was impressive, and Steve yelped again. 

Laughing, Bucky surfaced, and was met by a small wave of water splashed directly into his face. Sputtering and spitting, he let out a war cry and dove towards Steve again. Laughing and shouting, Steve took off, trying to get to the shore and higher ground. While they were both fairly graceful on land, they were mediocre swimmers. Steve was a bit screwed, though, because Bucky took only a few moments to get within reach. 

Grabbing Steve’s ankle, he yanked backwards. Reaching between the flailing legs, he risked life and limb to deliver a quick squeeze to Steve’s ridiculously hot Speedo. He caught a flailing foot in his ribs for his trouble, but it was worth it. Bucky 1, Steve 0.

Throwing himself sideways to escape Steve, he wasn’t fast enough. It was his turn to go under with a yelp as a pair of strong hands grabbed his legs. Now the war was on. They chased each other like teenagers until the last rays of sun were gone, and they were both panting with effort. 

In the end, Bucky draped his upper body over a mostly submerged rock and watched as Steve floated lazily in the clear water. Eventually Steve pulled himself onto the bigger outcropping, and Bucky watched the flex of his arms, the way the muscular stretch of his back shifted and folded.

“You had a very expressive back,” Bucky murmured, his head pillowed on his folded arms, legs lazily kicking in the water. “It was the first thing that really caught my attention about you.”

“Which you?” Steve asked.

“The one that feels like the biggest part of me, the Soldier.” 

To Bucky’s mild relief, Steve just nodded like it was nothing but information.

“The first thing I noticed about you was your eyes. They saw nothing, until they saw me and found me lacking. It was… new.”

Bucky snorted.

“You didn’t bring me any weapons!”

Steve chuckled.

“I didn’t say you were wrong.” 

Lying out on the rocks, Steve tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the stars twinkling above them. Bucky just watched him, enjoying the lack of tension in his lover’s body. Riling Steve up usually caused him to forget to be sad. Sex or sass, both helped to throw Steve out of his dark moods. Bucky liked him like this, mostly naked, very male, and much younger without the past weighing him down.

“The first thing I really noticed about you, back in the Twenties, was your walk. You used to strut, like a peacock, your mom said.” Steve rubbed his nose. “You still got it, you know? During the war it was like a wolf, but now? You’re like a tiger. A man eater.”

Bucky watched the flex of Steve’s thighs as he shifted on the rock. God, those thighs were beyond description. His entire legs, all ten thousand miles of them, were stunning.

“I am definitely hungry,” he murmured, licking his lips.

Steve chuckled softly.

“You’re impossible is what you are.”

Bucky laughed.

“I mean it. You keep your face impassive and blank a lot, but you project so much with your back. You tell me I strut? Well, have you seen how you look from behind?” 

“No, my eyes aren’t in the back of my head.”

Bucky ignored him, pulling himself higher on his little rock.

“Plenty of cameras everywhere,” Bucky shot back. His hair was plastered to his face, but he felt too lazy to push it back. “The outrageous ratio between your shoulders and waist only adds to the effect but man, can you hiss with your shoulders.”

“Hiss?” Steve raised his head to stare at Bucky. “Hiss? That’s not even English.”

“Still true. You do this whole, ‘Hiss, touch not the cat’, or ‘Hiss, am gonna be bitchy’, or have ‘Come pet me’ shoulders. Like cats ears, really.” Bucky put his hands in front of him and mimicked cat ears in the air, then spread them so that they lay flat to the sides “This is the angle of your shoulders when you get pissy.” He changed the angles so that the hands weren’t completely flat, but still sideways. “This is the cuddle me angle.” He changed the angles again, this time with his palms pointed slightly up. “Everything between this and this,” he demonstrated a range of angles, “is the ‘hiss’ angle.”

Steve stared at Bucky for a few more moments, then relaxed back to stare at the stars again.

“If I paid that much attention to myself, I’d be a damned narcissist.”

“I noticed the angles even before we got here,” Bucky said before he had the time to think about his words. “It’s why I found you so interesting.”

“Nah, you just wanted to fuck me.”

The laugh that startled out of Bucky was mostly because he hadn’t expected Steve to be so flippant.

“I did, but I saw plenty of attractive people in my time at Hydra. They were into the whole perfect human thing after all. You, I found hot on a whole different level.”

“Because my shoulders speak to you,” Steve said so dryly he didn’t really believe the words.

“Well they do speak whole poems to me.” 

Bucky flopped into the water as ungracefully as he could and paddled towards Steve. He pulled himself out, the plates on his arm starting to shiver to rid themselves of water as soon as he was on the rock. Grinning down at Steve, he squeezed whatever water was in his hair out onto him, making him yelp, then surge up and shove Bucky bodily off the rock. 

Laughing even as his back hit the water, his arm grumbling the entire time, Bucky climbed back up and, after wringing out his hair into the pond, made himself at home at Steve’s side, resting his head on one impressive bicep.

“This is nice,” Steve murmured.

“I liked how you carried yourself,” Bucky murmured, staring at the steady movement of Steve’s chest as he breathed. Steve glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow. “You were competent and calm.” 

Bucky let his eyes slide closed and drifted back to that time. The arm roused, a silent query that felt like a little scratch at his brain. 

_Download?_

_Yes._

The memories stored inside the arm were in vivid Technicolor, a recording of all his senses and not just a memory. It was like seeing Steve again, dark suit, soot on his face and blood on his body. He was dark and dangerous, younger than any of his previous handlers, but at the same time projecting more control than any had ever managed.

“You were so sure you could control me.” Bucky licked his lips, the image of Steve still in front of his eyes. “Others just wanted it.’

“I didn’t want it,” Steve whispered and Bucky slung his arm around his waist, not wanting to upset him.

“No, but you’ve always had it.” Bucky turned his head, kissing Steve’s shoulder. “You’re a commander, a leader. It’s… just the way you’re built. I love that about you, Stevie. Always did.”

“Even if I don’t have it any more?”

Bucky kissed Steve a little higher, then again on his cheek.

“You’re getting back to yourself, but even if you’re always different? I’m here, aren’t I?”

Rolling over, Steve kissed him, sweet and gentle. There was no heat there, just affection in the slide of Steve’s lips against his own. It was unhurried and tender, kissing for the sake of it, and Bucky fell into it, into Steve, and just let himself enjoy the moment.

_Should I engage coupling mode?_

Bucky giggled before he caught himself, then could only attempt to stifle the unexplained laughter. Since he wasn’t in on the joke, Steve raised an eyebrow curiously and gave Bucky an indulgent smile as he waited to be let in on Bucky’s amusement.

“Hey Steve, wanna have sex?”

“Because it amuses you?” Steve asked, drawing a hand down Bucky’s side.

“It’s an honest question!”

_More cooperation would be helpful._

“Didn’t say it wasn’t,” Steve’s hand hadn’t stopped moving, “ _and_ so was mine.”

“I like having sex with you,” Bucky defended, torn between the two conversations.

_Make him more cooperative._

Steve snorted.

“Yet you’re awfully defensive for someone who just wants to have sex.”

“Well, I’m the easy one.” 

Bucky was unashamed how easy he was for Steve. Before him, the sex workers under his protection. Anyone, really, who would touch him. Now, though, _just_ Steve.

_Coupling mode?_

Frustrated, Bucky shot back, _What is it with you today?_

“Right here, on this rock, with no prep?” Steve’s eyebrow rose higher. “You want to have sex?”

_Coupling mode is for him_. There was an odd way, ‘him’ resonated in his mind. The arm had evolved in the years since it first talked to him, gaining more human inflection over time. But it wasn’t human, not really, and the way it stressed some words was odd at the best of times, painful at others.

Bucky turned his attention back to Steve. He did want Steve; he always wanted him.

“Of course I do!” He grinned at Steve. “We like having sex with you.”

Something flickered in Steve’s expression.

_“We?”_

Bucky froze. It wasn’t the first time he slipped, talking about himself and the arm as ‘we’, but he hadn’t thought Steve noticed. Now Steve was noticing his reaction, his eyes narrowing, searching. 

Shit.

“Slip of the tongue,” Bucky tried to deflect. 

Something new flicked into Steve’s gaze, the edges tightening as his jaw clenched.

“So, we’re lying now,” Steve said, his voice as tight as the muscle beneath his ear.

_That is not helpful. Combat mode?_

Bucky gritted his teeth, telling the arm, _Shut up, you are not helping. And no, for fuck’s sake!_

“Bucky?” Steve said, and Bucky was relieved he hadn’t moved away. He was holding himself still, but they were still entwined on the rock. Though he was pissed off, he wasn’t running or folding in on himself. It was progress, when you looked at it that way. Bucky didn’t really want to look at Steve being angry at all.

Bucky sighed.

“I wish we’d just had sex.” 

The muscle in Steve’s jaw flexed and Bucky worried for his teeth.

_If not coupling mode, and not combat mode, then what?_

Bucky twitched.

“Since you seem so keen on avoiding my question, I imagine you do.” Finally Steve pulled away, sitting up, crossing his legs and all but glaring at Bucky. “I thought we were on the same page. You don’t have to tell me anything, but _lying_ to me about it?”

“I’m not lying!” Bucky sat up as well, but let Steve keep his distance, shoving wet hair out of his face. “It’s not a _lie_ , lie.”

Steve narrowed his eyes again.

“That doesn’t even make sense, Bucky.”

“Welcome to my life.” Bucky sighed again. “I can’t tell you things that are not mine to tell.”

How could he explain that he wasn’t alone in his mind? That in some way, Steve had never been with Bucky alone. That he could never _be_ alone with Bucky.

“Then say _that. Fuck!_ ” Steve shoved hair he didn’t have off his forehead. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself. Very quietly, Steve said, “I need to be able to trust you, Bucky. I don’t… I don’t know what I’m going to do if I can’t believe… I…” Steve shook his head, then took another deep breath and closed his eyes. “Just tell me you can’t tell me. That’s all I’m asking. Don’t lie to me.”

_Mission security compromised?_

Bucky stared at Steve. Yeah, mission security was compromised to hell and back.

“I can't tell you,” Bucky repeated dutifully. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t. The arm wasn’t a robot, it was an artificial intelligence. As much as it was damaged, it was still recognizably alive. It was a person. A being. Bucky didn't want to think about what had to have been done to it to have it become as fragmented as Bucky himself. He felt protective of it in ways he wasn’t even of himself. They had been together through the bad years and the years after. When everything else he’d known was gone, the arm had been there. It never judged him, never demanded things from him. He couldn’t give it away, not after that one night it demanded that it not be attached to a new host. He had tried explaining that as a human being, he would die before the arm was destroyed, but it hadn’t changed its mind. Telling someone else meant risking its only wish.

Another long, deep breath pushed out of Steve’s lungs, and he nodded. “Okay,” he said, opening his eyes and meeting Bucky’s gaze evenly. No tense jaw, no raised eyebrows, no narrowed eyes. 

_Download?_

Bucky frowned. Why would he want a download now?

_Not you_ , the arm corrected. _Him_.

Oh.

_You sure?_ Bucky asked the arm.

_Interface required_.

Well, fuck.

“I can’t tell you,” and damn, but Bucky did not want to tell Steve. His lover was often unstable; Bucky didn’t want to consider what this revelation might do to him.

“I heard you,” Steve said, looking away at the waterfall. “That’s okay.”

“But if we get back to the cabin, I can probably get you in contact with somebody who can.”

Steve’s head turned sharply, eyeing Bucky the way he had as Bucky’s handler. It sent a little thrill down his back. Bucky loved the dangerous shades of the handler in Steve, loved the potential of it. 

Quiet again, Steve finally said, “You don’t _have_ to. I believe you.”

Bucky swallowed, hoping the arm would say something. It didn’t, remaining quiet for once in his damned life. Some small, unbearably stupid part of him was curious what Steve’s reaction to the arm would be. Would he understand it? Would he accept it? Comprehend the whole of what it meant for Bucky? Not only the arm, but the effects of sharing that fact with anybody? By the end, even Hydra had forgotten that the arm had the ability to retain more than his physical memories, if they’d ever known. 

The thing was, as much as he didn’t want to, Bucky understood why Steve had reacted so strongly to the mere hint that Bucky had lied. Their entire relationship, this trip, _everything_ was built upon one thing: Bucky’s word that Steve had been a good handler. Bucky’s _word_ , which meant even this small moment of doubt could end everything. As much as he wanted to protect the arm, Bucky wanted to keep Steve in his life. 

“I think,” Bucky said slowly, “I do, Steve. This time, I do.”


	16. Chapter 16

The trip back to the cabin was stilted. Bucky tried to talk a few times, but Steve’s mind was heavy on whatever it was he was about to be told, and couldn’t keep up the conversation. Part of him felt guilty, but the rest of him was already emotionally exhausted from Bucky’s momentary lapse in honesty. His heart still ached from those moments Bucky had refused to even acknowledge what had happened, and he had to remind himself that they were past it, that Bucky had told him the truth, that they were fine. Meaning, he probably wouldn’t have been a great conversationalist anyways.

Soon Bucky stopped trying to walk by his side and lead the way. Steve was too distracted to bother with the branches, which might have influenced Bucky’s decision. Bucky was looking over his shoulder every so often, casting Steve worried glances. Or maybe guilty ones? Steve wasn’t sure anymore.

Thankfully the cabin wasn’t that far, so the awkward trip didn’t last all that long. They stepped inside, Bucky holding the door, and Steve headed for the living room. To his chair, curling up in it and looking at Bucky, waiting as patiently as he could when he knew Bucky had been hiding something from him. Something about Bucky being a ‘we’. Another identity maybe? Steve had read about that once. After all of his trauma, what they’d done to his brain, it wouldn’t have surprised Steve to find Bucky had had another person living in his head.

Bucky went to the counter that held their satellite phone and brought it back to the table where Steve was sitting. He dragged a second chair closer, sitting without meeting Steve’s gaze.

“It’s the first time I’ve done this, so bear with me.”

Nodding, Steve wrapped his arms tighter around his legs and waited, watching Bucky power up the phone. Placing it onto the table, he didn’t dial a number or pull up a website. Frowning, Steve tilted his head to the side as Bucky stretched out his left arm. He was weirdly silent and focused, almost turned inward, as he curled his hand into a fist, flexing the ‘muscles’ of his metal forearm. 

For a few achingly long moments Bucky only stared at his arm. Just as Steve was about to ask if Bucky was alright, the plates on his arm shifted. A thin line slowly split down the middle of his forearm, dark and black, then shining as light struck the metal guts inside. It was creepy, like Bucky’s body was falling apart, and Steve shifted uncomfortably as a series of tiny clicks continued until it stopped altogether. Steve could see small pistons and strangely woven cables before Bucky’s hand blocked his view, grabbing a cable and pulling it out.

Though Steve knew it wasn’t attached to Bucky like a vein, he still flinched and turned away. Even non-organic, it was a part of Bucky, his body, and Steve felt like he was watching him dismember himself. It was disturbing.

When he finally chanced looking back, the hole in Bucky’s arm was smaller, the cable snaking out, across his lap. Between Bucky’s fingers, where he held the cable’s end, a blue glow pulsed gently.

“Not sure it’s actually going to work,” Bucky murmured. “I might fry the phone, so sorry in advance.”

Steve didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything, as Bucky brought the cable to the phone. The end, no longer covered by Bucky’s hand, was filled with smaller cables that poked out of the rubber casing. Each glowed blue, the light fading and growing like a heartbeat. Maybe it was Bucky’s heartbeat.

Some part of Steve expected a spark as the ends touched the power port. What he did not expect was for the cable to _twist_ , sliding deeper into the port. Two of the tiny, glowing ends split out, diving into the auxiliary port, coiling and seeming to surge into the device. The phone’s screen flickered, then brightened to a solid grey. There were no icons, no text, and Steve had no idea what was going on. Bucky wasn’t looking at him, either, focused on his arm with his lower lip caught between his teeth.

Then, without any explanation at all, Bucky said, “Say, hi,” and Steve was pretty damn sure Bucky wasn’t talking to him.

Sure enough, the word, “HELLO,” appeared on the phone’s screen in simple, white block letters. 

Opening his mouth, Steve uncurled and leaned forward, but wasn’t sure what was happening just yet. Was this a trick of Bucky’s arm he hadn’t told Steve about? Or was this something else? Considering their argument had begun with Bucky hiding a ‘we’, Steve was leaning toward the latter. But… what? Was he talking to Bucky’s other personality? His arm? Someone on a phone miles away?

Bucky looked up at him expectantly, so Steve cleared his throat and said, “Who am I talking to, Buck?”

“You’re not going to answer it?” Bucky pointed at the phone, the message flickering on the screen.

If this was some kind of joke, Steve was going to punch Bucky in the jaw.

“Hello… phone,” Steve said, feeling like a complete idiot, and mildly worried for Bucky’s sanity.

The text vanished, wiped away, and quickly replaced with more of the same, white font. “I HAVE NO NAME. YOU CAN CALL ME IT IF YOU WISH.” 

The screen was too small for the big letters and the message appeared one word after another, making for awkward reading. 

“It?” Steve blurted. “I’m not calling anyone ‘It’.” Feeling even more stupid, Steve glared at Bucky. “Are you going to tell me who I’m talking to _now_?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Bucky asked, poking the cable with his flesh finger. His metal arm was utterly still on the table, dead and gutted with the way the plates stood open and the innards showed.

“Oh yes,” Steve said sarcastically, feeling more than a little irritated. “So obvious I'm asking you directly and for no particular reason.”

“The arm,” Bucky was starting to sound as irritable as Steve felt, a grating tone entering his words, and it only made Steve angrier. Like he was supposed to have _known_ that? It didn’t even make sense. It was Bucky’s _arm_.

“Your arm.” Steve said flatly. “I’m supposed to think it’s _obvious_ I’m talking to _your arm_.”

“There’s a cable.” Bucky touched the cable with one finger, trailing it down the length of it and Steve noticed that the plates shivered gently at the touch. “It’s the only interface I could find in this cabin.”

Steve didn’t snap at Bucky, he held his tongue and glared at him. The arm was also connected to Bucky’s nervous system, so there was every chance he was talking to another personality of his. That was even assuming Steve knew how the arm worked. For all he knew, it had satellite uplink of its own. But no, it was _obvious_ he was talking to an inorganic body part. Right.

“Alright,” Steve took a long, slow breath, trying to keep his anger under control, “your arm.” Steve opened his mouth again, then shut it slowly, at a loss with what he was supposed to do now. It didn’t even have a name. Then again, that was someplace to start. “Why don’t you have a name?”

“WE EXIST IN SYMBIOSIS. THERE IS NO NEED FOR NAMES. I AM.”

Steve stared at the screen blankly. Opening his mouth, he was about to ask Bucky why he was okay with his arm not having a name while being separate from him, when the first part of the text crashed through his thoughts. Symbiosis. Living together, unable to live apart. The arm was _alive_ and it had been around _the entire time_. We, Bucky had said. _We_ want to have sex. Steve had been having sex with someone - some _thing_ \- other than Bucky and _no one had told him_.

Something of his horror must have shown on his face, because Bucky said tentatively, 

“Steve?”

The text flashed out and was replaced again.

“WE DEVELOPED THE COUPLING MODE FOR YOU.” It was slow in appearing, but Steve was getting used to the process. He was _not_ used to the thought of having sex with Bucky’s arm separate from Bucky himself. Another consciousness, in their bed, being affected when he’d touched it, when it had touched him.

Slowly, to keep from lashing out, Steve growled, “You should have told me.”

Bucky’s lips twisted, the corners pulling down.

“We are one.”

“And you should have _told_ me.” The screen flashed, but Steve was glaring at his lover. “Before you had sex with me, before we had all those _personal_ conversations, _you should have told methere_ and I didn’t _know_.”

“We had sex before _I_ knew. I wasn’t just myself.”

Laughing hoarsely, Steve demanded, “And how long have you _known_?”

Gravity seemed to yank at Bucky’s lips even harder.

“Since they put me in the chair.”

The screen flashed brighter, demanding Steve’s attention, and he looked down to see, “I KEEP THE MEMORIES.”

That took all Steve’s anger and he slumped back in the chair, trying to understand what he was seeing. 

“Bucky’s memories?” he said aloud.

“SENSORY AND EMOTIONAL DATA. BIOLOGICAL NEURAL PATHWAYS TOO DAMAGED TO RETAIN DATA LONG TERM.”

“Jesus,” Steve whispered, all new horrors pooling in his stomach. 

“That’s how I remembered you. The arm asked for an upload of new memories and I realised that if there was an upload, maybe there was a download available.” Bucky licked his lips. “So I asked, and it showed me you.”

Pulling his knees to his chest, Steve flicked his gaze between Bucky and the phone. He hadn’t been entertaining the idea of separating Bucky from the arm, but he knew now that was never an option. Bucky’s brain was so fucked up, so permanently damaged, he wouldn’t be able to remember this moment in a few years. The arm fixed that, it gave Bucky something so important Steve could hardly put it into words. It gave _Steve_ Bucky.

“You should have told me,” Steve said again, but without the anger. His voice was hushed, but firm.

“I don’t think about this like it’s me and… somebody else. It’s just me. Parts of me just get huffy sometimes.”

“Bullshit,” Steve hissed. “You said _we_. You purposely hid this.” Steve flung out an arm at Bucky’s. “You can’t possibly think it’s perfectly fine that there was _someone else_ in bed with us and I had no idea. That every secret I told you, I told _someone else_ and _didn’t know_. It’s not just _okay_ , Bucky.”

“When? When was the right time? Not like I’m not aware you always have one foot out the door already. I couldn’t bring it up, just like that. It would scare you away.”

Steve stared at Bucky, mouth opening and closing, before he uncoiled from the couch.

“You should have _found the time_ ,” Steve said. “You were afraid I’d leave? That’s your excuse? It’s _my_ fault there was someone else in bed with us? It’s my fault your _arm_ has a consciousness?

“No, of course not, but the arm is not somebody else.”

“It _remembers_. It _wants to have sex with me_.” Steve was on the verge of shouting and had to make an effort to reign his temper back in. “It has _consciousness_. It isn’t you, or we wouldn’t be doing _this_ ,” Steve swept both his hands toward the phone. 

The screen flickered and went dark, no words appearing. Bucky looked down at the phone, his hair falling forward enough to hide his expression.

“It’s not organic. It's not judging you. It’s not a danger to you, not any more than I am.”

“It has _consciousness_ ,” Steve said again. “Your justifications are -” Steve let out a loud, frustrated sound. “Arm, thing, you - I am not mad at _you_. I’m mad at _him_.”

“Him? Who?” Bucky just sounded confused now.

“You!” Steve shouted. “I am mad at _you_ , Bucky Barnes. And apparently,” Steve waved at the dark phone again, “I’ve upset your arm!”

Bucky’s gaze was still fixed on the phone, his hair in his face. He was suspiciously still. Steve was used to him rising to the bait immediately and fighting back. This lack of action from Bucky was disturbing.

“It was just trying to help. Not like it ever communicated with anyone but me.” Bucky reached for the phone. “Silence is usually the safer route.”

Steve ground his teeth.

“Fuck you,” he bit out. “I have every right to be upset about this. If it wasn’t such a big deal, like you want me to think, you never would have hid it. I have no _issues_ with your arm. None. But you? You can’t even be asked to acknowledge that you should have told me.”

“I couldn’t make the decision myself. And I’m sorry I upset you.”

Steve deflated like a punching bag without sand. Flopping back into his chair, he crossed both his arms and legs.

“I’m still pissed,” he said honestly, “but I forgive you.”

“You’ve been mad a lot today,” Bucky said, tentative, gaze flicking to Steve beneath his hair. 

Steve sighed, taking it as the olive branch he knew it was.

Dryly, he said, “My therapist will be thrilled.”

“Steve,” Bucky said tightly. “You can’t tell anybody. Ever. You _can’t_ Steve.”

Raising his eyebrows, Steve said, “Okay,” because he didn’t understand why Bucky thought that would be a problem.

“Whatever you… you can’t, Steve. Promise me.” 

Bucky sounded scared, tension building in his shoulders.

Steve blinked, but it still wasn’t difficult to say, “I promise. Why do you think I’m going to break your trust? I haven’t… recently, have I?” Anxiety curled in his stomach as he tried to think of the last time he’d done so. There was the Hydra base, and after when he hadn’t gone to Bucky, but no, he wasn’t supposed to think of those things any more. They were past; Bucky had forgiven him. “Because I was mad? You think I'm going to… betray you again?”

“No,” Bucky sounded calmer now, “but you talk to your therapist, and since you hate it so much, you might want to talk about it.”

“Hate what?”

“The arm, me, the fact we are connected.”

“No, Bucky, Christ, I _said_ I don’t have a problem with your arm.” Rubbing his hand down his face, Steve sighed. “Call your arm back to the phone. I want to talk to it.”

Bucky looked unsure, his fingers hovering over the connection cable. Something clenched in Steve’s stomach.

“You don’t trust me. Okay.” He took a deep breath and nodded. “That’s fair.”

“It’s not like _I_ think you will do anything. It upsets you. And it’s not like I have a choice. Kinda feels wrong to shove it into your face like that when you…”

“You don’t have to explain, Bucky,” Steve interrupted, keeping his eyes closed and pressing his hands to his stomach like that would stop the roiling. “I understand.”

The phone beeped, startling Steve enough he opened his eyes. The screen was cool grey again, but without text. Waiting, Steve thought, for him to speak. He had to swallow hard before he could, though, riding out his feelings for a long moment.

“Hi,” Steve finally managed to say. “Um, look, I want you to hear me out a second, okay? I meant it when I said I wasn’t mad at you. I never was and I don’t hate you, or that you’re here. I can’t, not when you’ve done so much for me and for Bucky. I’m _glad_ for you, for keeping his memories, for being here. I don’t want you to go, or to not be here. I hope you can believe that.”

“HELLO.” The text appeared almost slowly, as if unsure, but Steve smiled as it returned his awkward greeting.

“I’m Steve.” Steve stood, crossed to the couch, and sat at Bucky’s side. Carefully, he laid his hand on Bucky’s metal bicep, well above where the forearm still lay open. “I think we’re overdue for an introduction.”

“ENGAGE COUPLING MODE?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bucky groaned, hitting his head on the back of the couch.

Steve laughed.

“Yes, go ahead.”

With a ripple, Bucky’s arm shifted, turning into the tiny, dragon skin plates that flexed and moved just like real skin.

“It means sex, Steve. It expects us to have sex _right now_.”

“I know what _coupling_ means, Bucky.” Steve kissed him on the temple. “I’m angry, not stupid.”

“I know. I just don't think you get that the arm doesn't have a wide repertoire of reactions.”

“Mm, but now I know why you can be giggly for no particular reason.” Steve stroked a hand up and down Bucky’s arm, watching the plates and the man himself shiver. “And why you’ve always got sex on the brain.”

“Yeah,” Bucky’s voice lowered. “I like the way you touch me.”

Steve kissed Bucky’s temple again, sliding closer, and never stopping the gentle up and down motion of his fingertips.

“I don’t hate it,” he murmured. “I don’t hate you. I was just mad, Buck.”

“I know you were.” Bucky sighed. “I wish things were different.”

“We’re gonna fight sometimes.” Steve pushed his nose behind Bucky’s ear. “I’m not going to go anywhere because we fight… I’m not planning on going anywhere at all, Buck.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

Turning his head, Steve kissed Bucky’s pulse, then his cheek, the kept kissing him across his jaw to his lips. Slowly, sweetly, he swiped his lips across Bucky’s, then again, and again, until Bucky was leaning into him, sighing, his flesh hand curling into Steve’s shirt.

“I ain’t leaving,” Steve promised, whispering it against Bucky’s lips. He’d say it as many times as Bucky needed to hear it.

Bucky jerked away suddenly and looked down at the arm. Startled, Steve leaned back and looked down. Nothing seemed different. The limb was open and still creepy, but unmoving.

“What?” 

“If we’re going to have sex, then disengaging the arm from the phone would be best, I think.” Bucky looked up at Steve. “Unless you want to talk to it during?”

“I don’t think I even could,” Steve said, leaving out the bit where he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Not this first time after learning the arm was there, with them, at least.

Nodding, Bucky waited as the cables surrounding the phone pulled back, withdrawing slowly towards the open plates. Steve watched, fascinated, as it tucked itself into the open arm, the faint glow disappearing. The tiny scales flowed down, over the opening, hiding the inner workings from sight once again.

Unable to resist, Steve ran his fingers over the vanished hole. It felt sold and tough, as always, just a ripple of metal as Bucky shivered under his touch. It didn't feel different.

“How much does it feel?”

“As I understand it, it shares large chunks of my nervous system with me and fills in where that fails. It can register what I feel and react to touch to the arm itself, but touch alone doesn’t matter. It matters who is doing the touching.”

Sliding his arm around Bucky, Steve leaned heavily against his side. He kissed his cheek, his temple, then his jaw as warmth flooded his chest. It was a miracle having Bucky back, a miracle he had thanks to the strange consciousness in Bucky’s arm. Its presence didn’t much matter, not compared to this, to how Bucky showed him every day how much he cared for Steve. No matter their past, or Steve’s issues, or that he hadn’t said it outright, Bucky loved him. And, apparently, so did Buckys’ arm.

“I’m gonna have to come up with a name for you arm.” 

Steve slid off the couch, grabbing Bucky’s hand and pulling him up. Bucky made a face, his nose scrunching up in a most hilarious fashion.

“It’s an _arm_.”

“If it wasn’t more, you wouldn’t have sworn me to secrecy.” Steve tugged and Bucky followed, raising an eyebrow as Steve led them toward the bedroom he’d once called his own. “You really can’t have it both ways.”

“But it feels like an arm!” Bucky whined, holding out his fist, then opening and closing his metal fist, as if to see, ‘Look! Arm!’

“And it talks, and apparently has feelings,” Steve replied, rolling his eyes and tugging Bucky’s flesh arm harder, “and memories, and _life_ …”

Bucky was still making a face at Steve, but couldn’t come up with immediate riposte. Taking advantage of his silence, Steve turned Bucky around, then pushed him onto the bed. Bucky landed with an, “Oof,” bounced, and then raised an eyebrow. Smirking, Steve pulled his shirt over his head, then flexed, showing off the serum’s gifts.

“Think you’re wearing too many clothes,” Steve said.

“Am I now?” Bucky murmured, eyes trailing down Steve’s chest, enjoying the show. He braced himself on one arm, eyelids heavy, and Steve smiled at how quickly Bucky had changed tone from argumentative to seductive. 

Tucking his thumbs into his waistband, Steve nodded.

“Should take them off.”

“Thing is, I would have to take my eyes off of you.” 

Bucky was, well, _ogling_ Steve. There was no other word for it. His eyes ran slowly up and down Steve’s body, tracing every curve of Steve’s chest.

“Mm, well,” Steve ran his thumbs under the edge of his swim shorts, drawing Bucky’s eyes, “you’ll have more to look at once you’re naked.”

Slowly, Bucky grinned.

“You drive a hard bargain.”

It was gratifying to hear the raspy edge to Bucky’s voice and watch his hands reach for his waistband. Slowly, never taking his eyes off Steve, he opened up his pants and then braced his shoulders against the bed. Arching his body in one glorious, muscular bow, he pushed his pants down his thighs. Steve licked his lips, watching the play of muscles and the pale skin revealed. He never got tired of watching Bucky. 

Bucky kicked his pants off so they landed on the floor. Then, still watching Steve intently, Bucky reached for his shirt, grabbed his collar in each hand, and ripped it off. Steve groaned. He’d been turned on before, just from the idea of having Bucky in bed, but watching the expanse of scarred, muscled chest burst through the torn fabric had his cock standing at attention.

The ruined pieces of his shirt joined Steve’s on the floor, and Bucky laid back on his elbows, torso propped up, long legs on display. Bucky looked at Steve with a challenging tilt to his head.

“Faster this way.”

Steve couldn’t argue. Instead he rasped out, “Spread your legs.”

“You promised me something,” Bucky said, but he slid his legs apart, inch by inch, teasing Steve with the sight of those thick thighs spreading, showing off his crack and low-hanging balls. “I think I’ve earned it?”

Bending over, Steve whipped his trunks off in one yank. His cock slapped against his abdomen as he kicked the wet fabric aside, then straightened. Even though they’d been together for a while now, it was still an incredible feeling to know how much Bucky _wanted_ him. Bucky’s eyes were greedy on his skin, drinking him in, and he flexed again. Bucky’s cock twitched in appreciation. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his voice husky. “You gonna fuck me this time, Steve?” 

Steve could only nod. They hadn’t yet, not since well… since this bed; this bedroom even. It was his fault; Bucky wanted it. The way his eyes darkened just at Steve’s acknowledgment said as much. 

“You’re so goddamn sexy, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve knelt on the bed, his knee between Bucky’s spread legs. He had the pleasure of watching Bucky’s throat bob as he swallowed hard, just because Steve crawled forward, until he was hovering over Bucky’s body. For all that they hadn’t touched yet, Steve’s heart was pounding and he was achingly hard. So was Bucky. His cock was resting against his lower belly, thick and so inviting. Steve wanted to touch it, wanted to make Bucky squirm and moan.

“You unpack the lube?” Steve asked.

Bucky snorted, twisted onto his side, yanked open the bedside drawer and pulled out the bottle in question. 

“Of course I did.” 

Laughing, nearly giddy, Steve ignored the bottle in Bucky’s hand and bent down for kiss. It wasn’t sweet, or gentle. Steve nibbled on Bucky’s lips, thrust his tongue into his mouth, and revelled in the groan that he pulled from Bucky’s throat. Hands threaded through Steve’s hair, tugging him down, urging him on. The thick thighs that he enjoyed so much locked around his hips, both giving Steve more room as well as pressing against his sides. Bucky was showing him with his whole body how much he wanted Steve.

With their new position, Steve angled his hips down and lazily humped against Bucky’s groin. Their cocks rubbed together, damp from sweat and water and pre-come. Bucky’s teeth nipped at Steve’s tongue, demanding more than teasing, and Steve fumbled for the bottle of lube. He squeezed out too much, the slick stuff dripping off his hand and onto Bucky's groin. The cool made Bucky’s breath hitch and Steve could feel his thighs flex against his sides.

“Open up for me,” Steve said, barely able to stand the coil of heat that jolted through him when Bucky obeyed. His knees fell to the bed, bent and wide, giving Steve space. Steve wasn't going to be slow about it, the heat in his veins pushing him to get on with it. He pushed the slick fingers between Bucky’s cheeks and felt for the furreled ring of muscle. The overabundance of lube made everything slippery as Steve pushed his first finger in without much thought, gasping at the tight clench of Bucky’s body. 

Bucky made a sound low in his chest, and pushed his legs up higher on the bed, forcing them even farther apart.

“You are so good for me,” Steve praised, not paying much attention to what was coming out of his mouth. He was just so _happy_ with Bucky, with how it felt to be wanted by him, and how incredible Bucky was. 

Steve’s next finger went in as easily as the first with the great amount of dripping lube. The hot clench of Bucky’s body stoked the fires of Steve’s imagination as he fucked Bucky with his fingers, pushing the lube deeper, spreading it around. Bucky was making small noises on every push, hips tilting up to offer Steve even easier access, and Steve stretched him wider and wider, giving pleasure even as he prepared him for what was to come.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Steve whispered, pulling his fingers out of Bucky’s slightly open hole. 

“Yes.” Bucky said eagerly, his knees again pulling up Steve’s sides and tightening about his waist. “Do it.”

Steve used what remained of the slick to coat his cock. The jolt of pleasure from his own hand had his teeth clenching. He hadn’t noticed how aroused he had become, and his own touch had his body twitching on the edge of an orgasm. It was going to be quick, then, which wasn’t how he’d imagined fucking Bucky the first time. 

“You’re too sexy,” Steve grumbled, and Bucky blinked at him in confusion. Lining himself up, Steve pressed his tip against Bucky’s hole. “I’m not gonna last, Buck.”

Bucky never replied as Steve pushed his hips forward and his tip slipped past Bucky’s resistance. The pressure and the heat from being inside Bucky again took everything else from his mind. He was aware that he was moaning, but he didn't care. It felt so good to be inside Bucky, the pleasure making it difficult not to just thrust all the way in at once. Slowly he sank in, watching Bucky’s chest arch further with every inch Steve pushed in, then thrash as Steve bottomed out and wrapped his fist about Bucky’s cock at the same time.

“Steve!” Bucky shouted, grabbing his wrist, but it didn’t sound like Bucky wanted him to stop. He pulled out, slammed back in, and Bucky shouted his name again. Yes, definitely encouragement. 

Squeezing Bucky’s cock, Steve thrust as fast as he could while ensuring his cock was completely buried inside Bucky every time. He timed the strokes of his hand with the slap of his hips, and Bucky writhed and shouted like Steve had never seen. It was beautiful and stunning; Bucky seemed to have let go, let himself be consumed by pleasure, regardless of how he looked or sounded. 

If Steve hadn’t been wrapped up in his own pleasure, he would have thought about it more. Why Bucky was so free as Steve fucked him, but he didn’t have enough coherent thought left to do more than marvel at how gorgeous he was, his own orgasm was approaching too fast. Between the scent of their sex, so thick in the humid room, and the unbelievable feeling of thrusting into Bucky’s tight heat, Steve didn't have much control left. He let his hips speed up, losing all rhythm so that his thrusts were erratic and quick, chasing his own orgasm. 

For a brief moment, the sound of their wet bodies meeting and the pleasure of the act was the only thing in his mind. Then even that was wiped out. Steve’s orgasm clenched every muscle in his body, and he pushed in as deep as he could, filling Bucky with his release. The pleasure seemed endless, crashing over him in unstoppable waves, and yet all too short for how it left him gasping and shivering, leaning over Bucky at the end. Only the damp, sticky feeling of his hand, let him know that Bucky had come as well, though it took Steve a moment to realize what the sensation actually meant.

“Wow,” Bucky said.

Steve laughed, carefully pulled out, and then flopped onto his side.

“Not so bad yourself,” Steve said.

“Yeah, because it required so much effort to lie here and _take_ it.” 

Bucky’s voice had reached new depths as he said the word ‘take’. There was relish and pleasure in it, and a little surprise, too. It occured to Steve that for Bucky, this might have been a fantasy. Something they’d done tonight had pressed all of Bucky’s buttons, and Steve felt a curious sense of pride at how well-fucked Bucky looked. So relaxed, limps plump from how he must have bitten them. There was a slowly receding flush on his chest and neck, a gorgeous shade with his coloring.

Steve reached out to touch that flush, spreading his palm over Bucky's chest and leaving it there, just feeling his strong heartbeat.

“You missed that, huh?” he asked, his voice soft.

Bucky laughed, warm and sudden in the warm night air.

“You have no idea how much time I spent thinking about it.” Bucky still sounded slightly breathless, voice not quite back to normal. “About you and me, here, like that. It was…”

“Good?” Steve said, unable to keep the hope from coloring the question.

Smiling, Bucky closed his eyes and nodded.

“ _Very_.”

Steve shifted, stretching himself onto his side and resting his head on his fist. Bucky shifted as well, slowly rolling onto his stomach, as if every muscle weighed a ton. He stretched out luxuriously, head pillowed against his forearms. His back was damp with sweat, the humidity of the night wasn’t helping them dry off, though they lay bare on the sheets, the heat discouraging them from using any blankets. Bucky looked so relaxed with his eyes closed, arms folded under his chin. Steve loved seeing him like this, soft and easy, unconcerned by the scars and their fucked-up past. He lay his hand between Bucky's shoulder blades, then ran it slowly to the dip of his waist and over the swell of his buttocks. 

A slow, lazy moan left Bucky, though he didn’t even open his eyes.

“You seem happy,” Bucky murmured, his voice a rumbling counterpoint to the high pitched buzzing of the jungle’s insects.

Chuckling, Steve reversed the caress of his hand back along Bucky’s spine.

“Why wouldn’t I be happy? I’m here, alone, with you - oh wait, we’re _here_.”

Bucky shifted his foot, his toes brushing the arch of Steve’s, before settling against him.

“That’s not what I meant.” Bucky huffed, rolling his neck and opening one eye to peer at Steve. “I meant…”

The pause was heavy, stretching into silence as Bucky closed his eye again.

“Meant?” Steve prompted, jabbing a finger playfully in Bucky’s side.

Squirming away from Steve’s poking, Bucky said, “I _meant_ I expected you to be… anxious. After the letters.”

“Oh,” Steve said heavily. “Right.”

Bucky’s eye peeled open again.

“You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” Steve grumbled.

Bucky laughed, still lazy, and his voice rough from the sex they’d just had. Steve liked the sound.

“You are a ridiculous creature,” Bucky murmured, shifting onto his side so that he could face Steve. “Why do you even do these things if they bother you so much?”

Steve sighed again, but dutifully recited his therapist’s words, “‘The anxiety remains until you attempt to progress past the cause of the anxiety.’” Bucky just blinked at him. “It means I do it so I can stop being anxious about other things. Like running into the team again.”

“Do you even want to meet them?” Bucky pushed his messy hair away from his face. “You’ve avoided them for a while now.”

“Truthfully? No, but that’s the entirety of the problem. It’s like,” Steve rolled over, propping himself onto both his elbows, “with you. I didn’t _want_ to run into you again, but all I wanted was to be _with_ you again. I can’t have the latter without first going through the former. I… want to be friends with them again. I miss them. Like I missed you.”

Bucky was silent for a while, just lying there looking at Steve with an unreadable expression on his face. Instead of pushing, Steve trailed his fingers down Bucky’s nose, back up, over his brows, then around to his lips.

“You really would have come to me,” Bucky murmured against Steve’s fingertips, his eyes unreadable.

Licking his lips, Steve swallowed and nodded. He’d know, at the time, that just saying he would have tracked Bucky down eventually was one thing. This? This was proof he was capable of the effort. 

Unable to more than whisper for fear of losing his composure, Steve said, “I just needed time. It’s stupid, but this is… really hard.”

“I can see that. I can see you are trying.” Bucky licked his lips. “I’m different, more of a rip off the Band Aid right away kind of guy.”

Smiling weakly, Steve leaned forward to brush their noses together.

“Which is why we’re here.”

“To have wild sex in a cabin in the middle of the jungle.” Bucky nodded, a serious expression on his face. “It’s important.”

Laughing, Steve threw his arm around Bucky and snuggled close to his side despite the heat and the sweat.

“Exactly. Because sex is important.”


	17. Chapter 17

The past four days at the Costa Rican cabin had been surprisingly wonderful. Peaceful, even. Steve had grown closer to Bucky, reclaimed parts of himself, which Bucky would say was all part of the reason they’d come. He’d be right, but Steve knew it was only possible because of Bucky’s reaction to the place. No matter how many times Bucky had said it, seeing him here, where everything had gone so horribly wrong, proved that those words were more than just Bucky’s not understanding what Steve had done. Bucky liked it here - no, he loved it. Loved re-exploring this place as though it was an old honeymoon cabin they hadn’t seen since their wedding. It was a wonder to see and, important for Steve, believe. Bucky wasn’t haunted by what Steve had done. 

That simple fact had allowed Steve to reclaim his own memories. At least, some of them. He still couldn’t bear to think of how he’d hurt Bucky, but the memories of them together had their shadows banished. They had visited the waterfall everyday, splashing and playing, before returning to the cabin to cook, or make love, or just sit quietly in the living room. Steve was drawing again, though Bucky continued to care for his weapons instead of picking up a new hobby. 

The fact that Oracle wasn't with them meant they could be freer with their bodies as well. It didn't matter if Bucky sauntered naked into the kitchen and pulled Steve away from cooking breakfast to blow him. There was nobody to see, no young eyes to traumatise. Steve felt like a teenager again, where a breeze could make him hard. Bucky’s easy enjoyment of sex meant Steve didn’t have to stifle his own desires. They were both naked now, having finished a long shower - where they hadn’t done much washing - and situated in the living room.

Steve finished shading Bucky’s left cheek when a distant whump, whump, whump caught his attention. Freezing in place, he focused on his hearing, wondering if he was imagining things, but… No, those were definitely helicopters. At least two, possibly three, and they were getting louder.

“Bucky,” Steve said evenly, not wanting to startle his lover, “we have company. How many weapons did you bring?”

“Err…” 

Bucky had a particular sound to his voice whenever he was feeling guilty. Steve could hear it now.

“Er?” he echoed, hearing the guilt but not the reason for it. “You didn't bring any guns?” Steve didn't believe his own words. Bucky without weapons? Not in this lifetime. Probably not in the next.

“I brought guns!” Now Bucky was trying to cover up the suspicious shiftiness with outrage. “Who do you think I am?”

Steve narrowed his eyes. If Bucky had guns, wasn’t startled by approaching company, and wasn’t going to get said guns because of said company, then the only conclusion was he was expecting whoever was in those helicopters.

“There something you want to tell me, Buck?” Steve asked. “Or should I just stay here, naked in the window, while your guests arrive?”

Bucky widened his eyes and backed away from Steve. It was at once flattering and amusing that he thought Steve a threat while naked and seated.

“Surprise?” 

“Bucky,” Steve said lowly, “I’m not leaving this chair until you explain, and you better believe I’ll blame you for anything that comes of that. As in,” Steve smiled with teeth, “if you were hoping we’d have sex again, we won’t.”

Bucky looked at Steve like an alley cat unsurprised by the fresh cruelty the world was showing him, but still betrayed.

“How could you!?”

Tilting his head, Steve judged the helicopters’ progress and said, “You have about thirty seconds to explain. I suggest you _get on it_ and stop stalling.” He shrugged. “Unless you’d prefer I never fuck you again.”

Bucky’s face did a complicated series of contortions and then he finally spoke, his shoulders drooping.

“You mentioned your team,” Bucky murmured. Steve wasn’t sure which team he meant until he added, “And that you missed them.”

Everything in Steve’s mind screeched to a halt. The Avengers, that was the team Bucky meant. The helicopters were bringing _the Avengers_ here. Now. 

And Steve was _naked in the window_.

Adrenaline flooded Steve’s veins as he panicked, leapt from the chair, and shouted, “And you were letting me sit in the window! _?”_ as he raced past Bucky to put on something presentable. Something that wasn’t threatening, and somehow said ‘I’m sorry for being a mess’, and ‘forgive me’ because God knew he was terrible with words.

“Steve,” Bucky said from the doorway, but Steve ignored him in favor of emptying out his suitcase to look through every article of clothing he’d brought with him. There was only so much _time left_ because Bucky _hadn’t told him_ the _Avengers_ were coming.

“Steve!” Bucky shouted, grabbing Steve’s shoulder. 

“What!?” Steve shouted back, turning under his grip without sliding from under it. “Put something on for God’s sake!”

Calmly, Bucky took both Steve’s shoulders in hand and gave him another little shake. 

“Deep breaths,” Bucky said, “Don’t panic. This is why I didn’t tell you they were coming.” 

Steve blinked, scowled, but had to admit that was a good reason. No, what was he thinking? He was going to murder Bucky for not telling him earlier! He had probably flashed his bare ass at his old team!

Bucky must have realized his words were working, because he was suddenly kissing Steve hard, grabbing Steve’s ass in both hands, startling him enough he forgot to panic. Closing his eyes, he leaned heavily into Bucky, then broke the kiss.

“Relax,” Bucky murmured, ”I’m sure everybody appreciated such a fine sight.”

“I hate you,” Steve lied. “Please put on clothes. And help me find something to wear.”

Bucky snorted, but must have been satisfied by the relative calm in Steve’s tone to let him go. Without much deliberation, he picked out a tight, blue shirt and a pair of knee-length, black denim, jeans.

“Thank you,” Steve said with all the sincerity in his body, “Now you.”

“It’s like you don't appreciate my assets,” Bucky said, gesturing down at his body.

“You’re already walking on thin ice, mister,” Steve said, narrowing his eyes dangerously. “Clothes. Now.”

“Maybe a speedo,” Bucky grumbled, turning to his own bag.

Steve growled, but it was drowned out by the sound of the helicopters flying over their tiny cabin. The entire thing rattled, dirt and dust raining down from the rafters. Swallowing hard, Steve walked toward the door, when Bucky grabbed him again. He was still naked, Steve noted distantly as Bucky pulled him into his arms and kissed him again. 

“Doll,” Bucky said, just loud enough to be heard over the landing helicopters, “you didn’t put on your clothes.”

Blinking owlishly, Steve looked down at himself, then flushed a deep red. He was holding the shirt and shorts in his hand. And he’d been planning to go outside, where the Avengers were. Jesus Christ.

He must have cursed aloud, because Bucky laughed and nuzzled his cheek. 

“Put on your clothes,” Bucky ordered, “and I might put on some, too.”

“I’ll hold you to that deal,” Steve said, taking a deep breath and turning to do just that. When his shorts gave an ominous creak, he slowed down to make sure he didn't rip apart the flimsy fabric. By the time he pulled on both items, Bucky had somehow, magically, managed to get into a loose pair of pants and a white tank. He looked relaxed, in his element, and oddly unarmed.

“No knives?” Steve heard himself ask.

Bucky reached behind himself to produce a blade. He flashed it at Steve, then made it disappear again.

“Impressive,” Steve said honestly, and Bucky smiled.

“You have some color back in your face.”

“I guess all your easy access clothing is good for my health.”

Bucky laughed, then wrapped his arm around Steve’s waist.

“If only that were true.” He sighed exaggeratedly. “See, I figured if the Avengers were going to join our vacation, you’d want Oracle here, too. Which means you’re going to deny me access to that amazing dick you’ve got.”

Even as Steve laughed, his heart finally started beating at a normal pace. Bucky hadn’t told him the Avengers were coming, no, but he was trying to help. He’d invited Steve’s adopted daughter, even when the two hardly got along, because he knew Steve would have wanted it. Steve was still terrified about what was to come, but he was going to get through it because Bucky was here.

“I love you,” Steve said quietly.

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded, “me too, which is why I invited the creature, too.”

“She isn’t a creature.” Steve huffed and shook his head, but kissed Bucky’s cheek. He also made no effort to pull away from his arm, letting Bucky guide him to the front door. “And I was just about to inform you I _wasn’t_ going to withhold sex.”

“Wow,” Bucky stared at Steve with wide eyes, “the holiday really did do you good.”

“You really like pushing the envelope don’t you?” Steve murmured even as his heart was steadily climbing up his throat the closer they got to the door. 

“I like the spark in your eyes when I’m driving you up the wall,” Bucky admitted with disarming honesty.

Bucky put his hand on the door knob and Steve blurted, “I don’t think I can go out there.”

The arm around his waist tightened and Bucky’s nose brushed against his cheek.

“Yes you can,” Bucky said, gentle, but firm. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

Taking a shaky breath, Steve closed his eyes. There was no force on this Earth that could make him believe that. Yet, he took comfort from Bucky’s certainty, from his sturdy presence, and knew Bucky was right in one way. He _could_ go out there. He could face this, face people who had been friends, who he’d hurt and who’d hurt him. Whatever happened, in the end, he’d still have Bucky.

And Oracle.

“Okay,” Steve said, taking another, steadier breath. “Okay.”

Bucky pushed open the door and they stepped onto the porch. It took some maneuvering to get two super-soldiers through the door together, but Bucky didn’t let go, much to Steve’s relief. It turned out there really were three helicopters. They’d landed in the clearing, spaced evenly apart. The Stark logo was emblazoned on their sides, and nearly a dozen people were unloading them. Steve’s eyebrows crept into his hairline and he glanced at Bucky for some kind of explanation. Unfortunately, Bucky seemed to be at as much of a loss as he was, staring at the milling crowd with an expression Steve imagined people had when watching animals in the zoo.

A figure broke away from the rest, walking toward them with a single, dark blue duffle thrown over his shoulder.

“Bucky!” Sam called. “Didn’t give us much notice, but we’re here.” He stopped at the porch steps and nodded to Steve. “Hey, man. Hangin’ in there?”

“Shockingly so,” Steve said, licking his lips and then offering Sam his hand. They got along best out of the bunch after all that had happened, but Steve still felt like he was standing on quicksand. As though Sam could withdraw his friendliness at any time. Steve wouldn’t have blamed him. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

Sam’s eyes widened and he crossed his arms before looking at Bucky.

“Really now?” 

Bucky cleared his throat, then looked toward the helicopters and yelled, “Clint! Wrong way!”

The tall blond archer turned from the edge of the jungle and started toward the house. He carried two bags, both purple with white stitching. To Steve’s surprise, he did _not_ look happy to be there. Of all of them, Steve thought Clint would be the easiest going next to Sam.

“I can’t believe,” Clint started grumbling before he was within Sam’s earshot, “that you made me come to the middle of nowhere. I am so done with places without electricity.” Sam turned, catching his voice at last. “How am I supposed to make coffee?”

“Coffee press,” Steve offered and Clint tilted his head to the side, eyeing Steve speculatively.

“ _You_ can make coffee without electricity?”

“I can,” Steve said, glancing at Bucky.

“And now you’re Clint’s new best friend,” Bucky said dryly.

“Did hear you offer me coffee,” Clint grumbled, then shouldered past both of them and into the house. Like he didn’t find any of this awkward. It was… nice. 

Steve found himself smiling until a flash of red caught his attention among the milling people, and Steve could feel his breath freeze in his chest. Natasha was here, too. She was dressed conservatively in dark grey clothes that made her complexion startlingly pale. Only the bright color of her hair made her stand out. For a long moment, all Steve could do was stare at her. There was a complex mix of emotions choking him - guilt and happiness, pleasure that she’d come, terror at the thought of actually facing her and of her reaction. Had she read his letter? What was she thinking? This was such a bad idea. All of the Avengers here, in this place that they couldn’t just easily leave. This was going to be disaster, it was…. 

Steve jerked at the sharp poke at his side. He hissed, put his hand up to protect his ribs, and looked at the metal digit that had jabbed him. When he looked up at Bucky, he was staring at Steve expectantly.

“You back?”

Licking his lips, Steve nodded.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said before Bucky could, and Steve flushed, having forgotten he was even there. “You’re doing good. You look good.”

“It’s the sex,” Bucky said and Steve elbowed him in the ribs. 

Sam just laughed.

“Well, whatever it is, keep it up.”

Bucky gently pulled Steve out of the way, and Sam slipped past them into the house. 

A loud commotion caught both their attentions, and when the mass of people-unloading shifted, they saw Tony yelling at two guys trying to wrangle a huge crate off of one of the choppers.

“Careful! Handle it as you would your own jewels, boys!”

“Tony?” Steve said aloud, shocked all over again. Natasha _and_ Tony had come? He could hardly believe his eyes. Also, the rational part of his brain was terrified of Tony being stuck in a cabin without technology for any period of time.

“They’re gonna drop it,” Bucky mumbled, mostly to himself. Steve could see he was right.

Sighing, Steve took a deep breath and slipped from Bucky’s arm. 

“Go on,” he said as Bucky gave him a questioning look. “Go help them do it right, or Tony won’t ever stop bitching.” Bucky’s gaze was still searching, so Steve added more quietly, “I’ll be okay. I’ll come get you if I need.”

Bucky nodded once, curtly, then jogged toward the chopper. Steve smiled, knowing his lover was likely as eager to get the job finished now, just to come back to him. He’d been managing Steve masterfully since his confession and Steve loved him hopelessly for it.

“Steve.”

Tensing, Steve realized he’d missed Natasha closing the distance to the cabin. Now she stood at the foot of the steps, giving the little hideout the stink eye. He couldn’t blame her. That’s how he had felt when he’d arrived, too.

“Natasha,” Steve said softly. “You… you didn’t have to come.”

“I know.” Natasha took a deep breath and looked up at Steve. If Steve didn't know better, he would say she was being shy, but this was Natasha, and that wasn’t possible. “I read your letter.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something but his mind went blank. Writing those letters, especially the one to her, had hurt. He’d poured his heart and soul into that letter. It had been both cathartic and terrifying. Some part of him never believed those letters would be read, nor that he would face the people he’d written them to.

“I…” He trailed off, unsure of what to say. “I’m glad you came,” he choked out.

Natasha shifted the bag on her shoulder to the other.

“You and James haven’t had too much trouble?”

“No,” Steve said quickly, “It’s been nice. Peaceful, surprisingly.”

“James and peaceful in one sentence sounds strange,” Natasha said, turning to look back at where Bucky was lugging a crate twice his size off the chopper as a crowd looked on and Tony gave instructions. “He was always so coiled up.”

“It’s been good,” Steve said, waving as Oracle finally appeared through the crowd, looking nervous and tense with three bags slung over her shoulders. “He’s… He needed this place as much as he thought. I needed to be here to… to see him. If that makes sense.”

“It doesn’t,” Natasha said.

Steve blew out a breath and lowered his arm.

“He’s… shown me I’m not as evil as I thought. That this place isn’t the horror I thought it was.”

“The memories are always bigger in the darkness of our minds.”

Steve stared at her, at her green eyes, and thought about her past, the things she’d done and the things she’d learned to live with. Out of all of his friends, she was most suited to understanding what he was going through. The one who could understand being afraid of what he carried inside himself.

“I’m glad you came,” Steve said again.

“I would always come if you asked,” she said very quietly, not looking at him. “It’s why it hurt so much when you…”

“Natasha, I…”

“I know,” she cut in, stopping his apology in its tracks. “I read your letter. I know. You don't need to apologize again.”

Steve almost let it go at that, take the out she’d given him. It was cowardly, though, and Steve didn’t want to be that man again.

Softly he asked, “And if I _want_ to?”

Natasha’s stance was softening, her arms looser at her sides, no longer tightly folded. Steve had missed her so much.

“Then I would like to listen.” 

Steve glanced at Oracle, held up a finger to get her to hang back, and stepped down so he was on level ground with Natasha. His heart was beating fast again and he was afraid that she’d throw his words in his face, but he also knew this was the right thing to do. For once in a long time, he was completely sure.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, “for everything. For not asking you… to come sooner. For staying away. For what I said. I never meant, Nat, that you couldn't be saved. I meant _I_ couldn’t, but… it all came out wrong. And I’m so sorry.”

Natasha moved then, reaching her hand up to touch Steve’s chest.

“If it’s forgiveness you need, I can give that to you.”

Steve caught her hand where it was pressed to his chest and held it there. Small and warm, deceptively fragile.

“And if I need a my friend back?”

Her eyes were unreadable when they met his, not like before, when he understood her as well as himself. She no longer let him see that deeply. They might never get that back. It hurt, but Steve understood.

Natasha was quiet for a long time, watching him with eyes that could see through a a man in a heartbeat. Eventually she pulled her hand back and Steve had to fight to keep the pain from showing on his face.

“Hi,” she said, slowly and tentatively, like she was also just feeling her way through this. “I’m Natasha.” 

She extended her hand to offer him a handshake, and the relief was so intense he struggled to breathe. Steve had to swallow twice before he could force the words past his throat, offering his hand in kind. 

“I’m Steve,” he choked out. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” Natasha’s grip was as strong as ever, confident and alive. “I hope we can be friends.”

Steve smiled, feeling hope build in him in ways he hadn't felt in very long time. 

“I would like that very much.” 

Natasha smiled at him, a small, almost shy grin, but honest nonetheless.

“Your girl is waiting.”

“So she is.” Steve ran his hand through his hair and gestured to Oracle, while motioning to the house with his other hand. “Sam and Clint are inside already.”

Climbing the stairs, Natasha said dryly, “There is not enough room for all of us.”

“Nope,” Steve agreed, “blame Bucky.”

“Ugh,” Natasha grunted as Steve jogged to Oracle. 

“This is stupid,” Oracle tried to say, but the words got caught in her chest when Steve swept her into a hug, taking her off her feet and spinning her around. Though she laughed, she was shouting, “Put me down!” by the time set her on her feet.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, “and I’m so proud of you. _Look_ at you!”

Oracle flushed, ducking her head and pulling her backpack strap closer to her chest.

“Shut up, old man. You wouldn’t know what to do without me, that’s all.”

Though he laughed, Steve nodded because the words were true. Oracle had been his compass through some bad times. He loved her fiercely, and now she would get to meet his team. Well, his old team, but maybe his future one as well.

“I’ll make sure you get space to yourself,” Steve promised. 

Oracle eyed the cabin dubiously and said, “Good luck with that.”

“There’s plenty of forest; you can have a whole tree!” Bucky shouted from the other side of the clearing, proving he was eavesdropping for all he was worth.

Steve rolled his eyes.

“I’m not sleeping in a tree! That’s for psychos like you!” Oracle shouted back.

“Steve’s too big to have sex with me in a tree, so we’re taking the bed!” 

Since Bucky insisted on shouting, they now had the attention of every single crew member busy with unpacking the astounding amount of luggage. What had the Avengers done, anyway? Pack for an apocalypse?

“Bucky!” Steve shouted, flushing as Oracle groaned, turned on her heel, and marched past him and into the house.

“Oh! Already?” He all but dropped the crate he was holding, making Tony squeak in outrage, and turned to follow Steve. “Coming!”

“ _No!_ ” Steve growled, glaring, and Bucky wilted, turning back to the crate and Tony, who was wringing his hands.

“You’ve broken it,” he said mournfully.

Steve sighed, walking down toward them. There was likely nothing he could do except damage control.

“I bet I didn’t,” Bucky said to Tony, “but _he_ ,” Bucky pointed an accusing finger at Steve, “is breaking my dick, so I’m the one that deserves your pity. Not this doohickey.”

“What is it, anyway?” Steve asked as he came to stand by Bucky’s side. One thing that never failed to distract Tony was a conversation about his tech. Sure enough, Tony beamed at him, all distress vanishing.

“This,” Tony excitedly swept his hand toward the boxed… thing, “is a portable arc generator, wifi router, and satellite uplink.”

Steve blinked slowly, then opened his mouth, but no sound came out. One thing he’d been sure of upon seeing Tony, was that the man was going to hate it here without his gadgets. It had never occurred to him that Tony would _bring_ everything he _needed_ along with him. Suddenly, the ridiculous amount of baggage made sense.

“So, what else did you bring?” Bucky asked.

Tony grinned with a mad gleam in his eye.

“ _Everything_.”

“Not specific enough,” Bucky said, hefting the crate and lugging it toward the house.

Steve heard something that sounded suspiciously like a clink of glass on glass and turned around to gape at three men in dark blue coveralls who were almost done setting up a… Was it a bar? Yes, it was. There was a long counter, a set of shelves that were being loaded with bottles as he watched. Below the counter, he could see the metal barrels connected one by one to taps. Another guy was lugging what looked to be several large sun umbrellas, the kind outside cafes in the summer.

Now that he had a suspicion as to what to look for, he could see a stack of what he first assumed were crates and now looked more like loudspeakers off to the right and another guy unspooling cables from a huge roll.

“Well,” Steve said slowly, “looks like it’s not like we remembered at _all_ , is it?”

Bucky snorted, set the crate down by the cabin, and turned to Tony. 

“Those two go inside,” Tony said, gesturing to two smaller crates. By smaller, Steve meant that Bucky could lift one onto either shoulder and _might_ make it through the door on his own. “The guys should finish setting up my tent shortly.”

“Your tent?” Steve repeated as Bucky lifted one crate, stacked it on the other, and then picked up both.

Tony lowered his sunglasses to peer at Steve over the rim.

“It’s not like you have room for us, Rogers. The invitation was nice and all, but _some_ of us have _standards_.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but held back the sarcastic comment he wanted to offer. There was no relationship left with Tony to do so without hurting feelings, and that wasn’t why he’d wanted them here. It wasn’t why Bucky had invited them here.

“I’m glad you came,” Steve said, and if the words were stilted, he hoped Tony was too distracted to notice.

“I, for one, love your tent idea,” Bucky said, returning empty handed. He looked suspiciously pleased and Steve eyed him, not knowing what he was up to. “Did you bring tents for the others?” 

“Of course.” Tony sniffed imperiously. “You really thought we were going to clamber into that tiny hovel? Not on my watch. Not _seven people_ in a two-room cabin without air conditioning. No.” 

“Good thinking, very good thinking.” Bucky went as far as to clap Tony on his shoulder. Steve narrowed his eyes at his lover.

Tony swept his hands towards the multitude of workers and their work, “Welcome to _glamping_ , gentlemen.”

“Glamping,” Steve repeated tonelessly.

“Glamorous camping, if you have to.”

Steve blinked, surprised mostly because it fit Tony to a tee. Knowing he had put so much effort into this whole trip told Steve he actually wanted to be here, too. If there was one person who would hate to spend any time in the middle of nowhere, it was Tony. It warmed Steve that he’d planned all of this, brought all of these things, because he apparently wanted to see Steve.

“It’s incredible,” Steve said honestly. “Really, Tony. Everyone will be much more comfortable. It’s great.”

“Of course it is,” Tony said, but rubbed shyly at the bridge of his nose and turned away. “Well, I need to make sure that stuff you brought inside is set up right.” He was already walking, quickly taking himself away from Steve’s praise. “If I leave it to the others, it’ll be broken before I can sneeze.”

Reaching for Bucky’s hand, Steve laced their fingers together and leaned against the metal arm. He hadn’t come up with a name for it yet, but he would sooner or later. In the meantime, he squeezed Bucky’s hand, kissed his shoulder and then his cheek. 

“So it went well?” Bucky asked. “You and Nat? Tony?”

“Thank you,” Steve whispered. “I… Bucky… It’s not perfect, but… but I think it’s a start. I think I can fix what I broke-”

“It’s not all on you.” Bucky turned, wrapping his flesh arm around Steve’s back. “Don’t take it all on you.”

Blowing out a breath, Steve nodded, if only because Bucky was right.

“Okay, but…”

“You’re happy,” Bucky teased, leaning forward so their foreheads pressed together.

“Yeah,” Steve said, closing his eyes, “and… and I think… I think I want to spend forever not dying with you. Can we… Is that something you want?”

Bucky’s voice sounded gentle in a way he rarely let Steve, or anyone else, see, as he said, “You’ve finally caught up.” 

Swallowing hard, throat suddenly tight, Steve said, “I got slow in my old age.”

“I guess it’s good I like you this way,” Bucky said, then tilted Steve’s chin up to kiss him. From inside the cabin they could hear the the Avengers and Oracle filling the jungle around them with a riot of sound. With happiness. 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Come and visit us on Tumblr
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